


Before The Fall

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eldar, Elves, Family, Gen, Kissing, Mild slash, Noldor - Freeform, Politics, Russingon, Tirion, Valinor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A secret conclave of Fëanor and his sons is held, to address the problems of the house of Fingolfin's rising power amongst the Noldor of Tirion, and the discord it sows within their people. Grudges and secrets are thrown into the light, but while his sons squabble, Fëanor's patience has come to its end. Variable characters per chapter, a short series of vignettes leading to the Fall of the Noldor. Mild slash, violence, language. // On hiatus until further notice. Sorry, I am terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conclave

In the dining hall of the House of Fëanor, set in all its glory amongst the proud dwellings of Tirion, the air seemed clotted, thick with deceits and unspoken resentments. Golden light fell in great ribbons through the high windows, dust motes curling uneasily in shimmering radiance, sparking in little flashes of refracted light. They fell like tiny dying stars onto the bare oak table set in the middle of the room, around which a gathering of the sons of Fëanor were arrayed.    

With his back to the windows sat Maedhros, idly trailing a finger across the dark whorls of the wooden table. His auburn hair fell like a torrent of flame down his back as he leaned forward in his chair, shifting a little in bored irritation. He opened his mouth to speak, yet as he did he felt an elbow nudge against his ribs, hard enough to make him flinch. With an exasperated look he turned to Maglor, sitting placidly beside him, fiddling with the end of his long braided hair with an expression of nonchalance. Yet as he did so, he caught Maglor’s eye, and was mindful of the apprehension he saw there, a brief flare of worry beneath his peaceful demeanour. Quickly, he glanced across the table, to where Caranthir and Curufin sat, both brothers engaged in murmured conversation of the whereabouts of the remainder of their family; Celegorm, and the twins being away on a hunting trip, and their mother occupied with a sudden flurry of artistic motivation, locked away in her sculpting room, carving her statues from blocks of exquisite granites; white and grey and palest pink. And at the head of the table stood their father, his face stony, anger bristling in his every movement, graven into the hard lines of his mouth, woven through the unruly spill of his hair poured like pitch over the shoulders of his russet tunic. An intricate brooch of the eight-pointed star, the sigil of his house shone cold at his collar, the light seeming to shiver down its slender silver rays. 

Suddenly, Fëanor slammed a fist down onto the tabletop, rattling the wood against its fastenings. The silence that fell was livid, as all four of his sons whirled in their chairs to stare at him, expressions of shock and consternation caught on their faces.

“I knew it,” Fëanor growled, his voice taught and low, setting his jaw rigidly. “I knew it, I _know_ it. My beloved brother, so eager for power. Ever he has sought to supplant me, to usurp my throne. I am the elder, the firstborn son; the throne of the Noldor is mine. And he will climb over my cold, dead corpse before he lays a finger on it.”

Fëanor’s eyes flashed proudly, and with a measured, feline gait he began to pace behind his sons’ chairs, following the table’s length up and down the hall, ignoring the incredulous faces of his sons that stared up at him in light of this sudden outburst. “Oh he thinks I do not know,” he continued, “that I have not heard the rumours. And how he acts, with his so-called wisdom, his perfect politeness, but beneath his smiles and his bows and his pleasantries I can see it; the gleam in his eyes, the jealousy that burns there. He would have what is rightfully mine. He would spit on the laws of our people for one glistening chance at power…” 

Standing once more at the head of the table, abruptly he wheeled around, affixing his sons with a piercing stare.

“I will not allow that to happen.” 

His proclamation rang about the room for what felt like an eternity, each of the brothers caught off-guard by their father’s vehemence, this explosive outpouring of emotion so long left to simmer. Unsure of how to react, each pondered their father’s words, avoiding his eyes as gradually each brother came to his own conclusions. 

Finally, the silence broke, as Maedhros tentatively leaned forward against the table, softly yet firmly entreating, “Father, these rumours you hear, I have heard them whispered also. But I am left unsure. He is your brother, and he has followed you faithfully all of these years. Why would he turn against you? Why…”

“Enough!” Fëanor’s retribution was vicious, sending Maedhros sinking back into his chair in confused dismay. “He is a treacherous little worm; that is why! Is it not enough? He is the poison that runs through the veins, unnoticed, untreated, until it reaches the heart, and then we feel its bite. Oh, he has hidden his fangs well, but for all his subtleties I see them. They are there!” 

Resting one hand on Maedhros’ arm, Maglor gave him a reassuring squeeze, a wry smile touching his lips. He looked up at his father, his serene blue eyes locking onto his father’s dark brown, his irises set like blazing shadows in the brilliance of the afternoon light. Calmly, Maglor began to speak, his soft, lyrical voice flowing like molten gold through the room.

“Father, please, listen. I have heard rumours also. Do you not think it strange that these whispers coincide so well with the release of the Enemy? The Dark One has always hated you, father, he has always envied you and all that you have wrought. Can you not see? This is a ploy, one of his tricks, nothing more. He seeks to throw discord among us, so as to better achieve his own malicious ends, though what they may be I do not know.”

“And what proof have you of this?” Caranthir asked, his deep baritone and dusky complexion adding a threatening note to his words, although whether this was intended Maglor wondered. His younger brother had always been…intimidating. Maglor arched his eyebrow, bidding Caranthir continue. “Since the Dark One’s release he has appeared changed, reformed. He is repentant of his malice, we all stood witness to that. Why then do you lay these accusations at _his_ feet?”

Maglor opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Curufin spoke, brushing his raven fall of hair back from his face, and glaring at Maglor sharply from beneath his heavy eyebrows. “Our uncle has always been aloof, and our cousins slippery. Always they have hungered for power, waiting like carrion-birds circling a kill.”

“Careful what you imply, brother!” Maedhros growled, causing Maglor to jump at the ferocity of his brother’s voice. Curufin looked on, the faintest curls of disdain pricking at the corners of his lips as Maedhros continued. “I will not suffer insult to Fingon, nor his siblings, especially based upon such unfounded rumour. Ever has he been my friend, my closest friend, and I will not have him insulted by the likes of you.”

But Curufin ignored the threat in Maedhros’ voice, angrily replying, “And are you so eager to leap to his defence? Do you have such proof of his _innocence_? I will not deny that you spend most of your time in his company, gallivanting around the countryside like a pair of star-struck lovers. But how much do you truly know him? Would he open up his heart to you?”

At that Maedhros bridled, his breath inhaled in one sharp, lingering hiss. And beside him, Maglor inwardly braced himself, wincing as he knew that Curufin’s words would hit their target well, and he prayed that his brother would not do something regrettable. He watched the play of the muscles in Maedhros’ jaw, sliding under his skin as he fought back a scathing retort, until gradually he relaxed, sinking a little lower into his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. A thin smile forced across his lips, and tersely he asked, “Pray tell me, brother, what would you know of the matter?”

“…Rumours reach my ears too, _brother_. And how interesting they are. Two young lords slinking around by candlelight, clothes shed in the most unexpected of places…Well, next time he visits, lock the door and ask him. Lay his heart open before you. Spread his secrets rather than his legs.”

Maedhros flushed crimson at his last sneer, a snarl of fury twisting across his face. And almost faster than the eye could follow he lunged around the table, knocking aside Maglor’s restraining hand that reached out to stop him, grabbing Curufin by the front of his tunic and hauling him from his chair, leaving him to dangle in his grip, his hands scrabbling against Maedhros’ for purchase in some instinctive attempt to break free. Maedhros’ knuckles were white and bloodless around fistfuls of Curufin’s black tunic, and roughly he pulled him close, their noses almost touching, Maedhros’ hazel eyes boring into Curufin’s, like liquid pools of ink, dark and wetly shining. Tendons jumped bold in his neck, his arms shaking with a combination of anger, and the effort of holding his brother’s weight, as Maedhros hissed,

“You overstep your bounds.”

But Curufin smiled, un-intimidated by his elder brother, and jerked his head back, a malicious, knowing grin curving across his face. He cocked his head mockingly to the side, and something cruel glittered behind his eyes. Releasing Maedhros’ fists with one hand, he brought it level with his groin; forming a crude, unimaginative gesture, accompanied by a series of low, guttural moans and grunts, the method of their making painfully obvious with the lascivious grin plastered across his face, his tongue licking across his teeth. And for a moment Maedhros was still, paralyzed in stunned disbelief of his brother’s arrogance, his boldness, but rage swiftly overcame him, like oil poured over firewood and igniting into flame. His cheeks and neck mottled scarlet, and he recoiled, his right hand letting go of Curufin’s tunic, arcing back with dangerous intent; to slap him, to strike him, to wipe that stupid smug smile off of his face, to make him unsay what was said, take back his venomous words and the lethal slivers of truth strung within them. And Curufin just stood there, smiling that insufferable smile, waiting for the blow he knew was to come, secretly exultant that he could affect Maedhros so, twist him around his finger, with all the right words in all the right places disarm him, leave him bleeding on the floor. So he watched, and he waited, seeing the muscles tense in his brother’s arm, the veins rising under his skin, waiting for the pain to crash down upon him…

“Maedhros, stop!” His father’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and whip-like. “This has gone far enough. Let him go, _now_!”

Grudgingly Maedhros let go of Curufin’s tunic, shoving him back down into his chair, and with a look that could have felled birds from the sky stalked back to his own seat on the opposite side of the table, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists, a vein pulsing along his neck, still flushed a bright crimson. He flung himself down, staring hard at the table, his auburn hair falling like a wave of flame across his scowling features, fortunately obscuring his view of Curufin, who settled back into his chair with a triumphant sneer, that was rapidly smoothed away into wry neutrality as he noticed Maglor’s pointed glare. At the head of the table, Fëanor asserted himself once more, incensed by his sons’ behaviour. 

“I will have no more of this. You squabble amongst yourselves like petty children. I have heard tale of these disgusting lies also. And I will not hold with them. Maedhros, you and your cousin will separate…”

Maedhros’ head snapped upwards, his eyes flaring as he stared at his father in horror. Cold rills of panic ran through him, the air seemed to punch out of his lungs, and he opened his mouth to retort, not even knowing what words he could possibly say but before he could utter a syllable Fëanor snapped, “Don’t argue! I have heard enough lies and pathetic protests for one day. You will not see him, Maedhros, you will not be in his company. This is final. You will obey me in this, or else I will set you in bonds. My dearest brother searches for every way to undermine me. And here, my eldest son and his fucking like cats in an alleyway! I will not have it. _Do you understand me_?”

And for one horrifying second it seemed like Maedhros would scream, hurt and despair whirling within him, their blades dragging through his innards, but he remained still, and silent, staring hard into the table, his hands clenched around the arms of his chair. And shakily he exhaled, biting his lip hard to still the trembling of his jaw, suddenly tasting the salty wash of blood in his mouth where his lip split under the pressure. He grimaced, then slumped back into his chair, folding his arms once more across his chest and sullenly glaring his boots, avoiding the probing eyes of his brothers.  

“This insubordination shall not be tolerated any longer. I will speak to my father, and we shall set the situation to rights. My brother shall be reminded of his place,” Fëanor spat as he turned upon his heel, crossing the room to stand facing the window, looking darkly out over the courtyards and domed rooftops sloping down the city’s side, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. The red velvet of his tunic suffused into the afternoon’s golden radiance, setting crimson silhouettes wavering about him, limning him in arterial light, a halo steeped in blood.

Behind him, Fëanor heard the scrape of wood over stone, the quiet rustle of fabric as Maglor twisted in his seat to face him, apprehensively watching the hard set of his father’s shoulders, the tightness of his hands clasped behind his back as he scowled out of the window. 

“Father,” Maglor spoke, a note of urgency ringing through his usually balanced tones, “I _urge_ you not to do anything rash, I do not think…”

“Rash?!” Fëanor spat, swinging around to face his sons once more with a look of contempt. He strode back to the head of the table, his eyes caustic, and with a final look he spoke, the words pouring like molten steel over his lips, puissant and edged in deadly potential. “Maglor, do you take me for a fool? You speak of rashness…No. But every slight he has paid me shall be returned in kind. I will not be made a mockery of in the halls of my father, though the Valar rain down their judgement upon me.

And let them try! For too long they have caged us here, trapped behind their walls of stone, these mountains that they claim protect us, but from what? The Enemy himself they have brought among us, loosed him upon our people…But no matter. He is of little consequence. It is his brethren with whom I have quarrel. We are ignored but for what knowledge they deign to teach us, imprisoned for their jealousy of our creations. For have I not wrought what they could not? Who among them, among all of the beings of Arda can match my craftsmanship? And what they cannot make for themselves they would possess, and they would be revealed in their corruption for doing so. My creations are my own, _not theirs_ , and never but with my leave will they be taken from me. And my leave I shall not give to them. Let them gnaw on their lust like feral dogs over a bone, but they will not take from me what is rightfully mine. 

Ever they seek to contain us, use us like slaves to make their trinkets, to dance for their amusement. But the beauty of our people, of _my_ people waxes strong. We deserve more than slavery. I remember the starlit meres of my birth, the rolling grasslands, the vast emptiness in all of its possibilities, waiting there for us beyond the shores of the sea. But we were taken, misled, and thrown to fester in their cage, like dark flies breeding maggots that start to squirm in the wound, devouring, destroying until we collapse. And they will do nothing. The Valar sit in their lofty halls and they watch and they judge, but they will do nothing.

So I will act before this infestation spreads any further. I will suffer this insult no more. On the morrow, I shall have audience with my father, and our wrongs shall be put to right.” 

Abruptly Fëanor spun on his heel, stalking out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him, its percussion rippling through the astonished silence left in his wake. All four of the brothers looked at each other in helpless consternation, each shaken by their father’s words, and what actions he dared to imply. With an exasperated sigh, Maglor shook his head, muttering, “This is a mistake. But in his pride, he will not even stop to listen, to think…”

“And will you be the one to tell him that?” Curufin broke in, “I do not envy your place if you try.”

Then Caranthir, unusually quiet through most of the afternoon’s proceedings spoke, in his rumbling baritone questioned, “But what if he is right? You are not blind; it is plain that our uncle desires greater power, and more control over our affairs. And by what right may he claim this? He is not the elder. He is not the superior. The sooner father talks to the king, the better, so our uncle’s arrogance may be stilled forever, and that of his insufferable sons.” 

Glancing at Maedhros’ still sullen expression, Maglor started forward as if to speak, but Maedhros’ chill voice cut over him, every syllable strained and icy, and sounding as though it hurt. 

“Do not speak that way of your kin, Caranthir. Theirs is a nobility that runs deep, even if you refuse to see it.”

“If you say so, brother,” came the retort, dripping with sarcasm, drawing a smirk from Curufin, and an ugly scowl from Maedhros, glowering at him from across the table. With a lazy half-smile, Caranthir rose, arranging the dramatic sweep of his embroidered robes behind him with a flourish. “Now, I shall await the return of Celegorm and the twins from their hunt. They are due back, by now. Perhaps they will have caught more than a hare apiece this time!”

 Curufin stood also, following Caranthir as he strode towards the door, a derisive grin affixed on his face. “Better than you can do, brother!” he called. “The idea of hunting is to hit your prey, you know, rather than create an obstacle course of arrows for it to run straight past!”

With mock theatricality, Caranthir sighed, pausing in the doorframe, one hand raised to his forehead, a ridiculous look of anguish contorting his dark features. “Oh you cut me to the quick! I’ve seen maidens throw a spear better than you, Curufin, and blindfolded at that!”

Curufin coloured at the jest, and seeing Caranthir slip out of the door stormed after him, beginning a round of colourful bickering that would undoubtedly last them the night; all snide sarcasm and passive aggression as was their wont. Their voices echoed down the corridor, the clatter of their boots against the marble floor slowly fading into silence, leaving Maedhros and Maglor sitting alone in the hall, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

A melancholy silence stretched between them, as the first glimmers of silver crept into the golden afternoon light, little motes of dust shivering as the light fractured upon them. Both brothers watched them, until Maglor pushed himself back in his chair, slouching wearily against its carved back, one hand resting under his chin.

“They’re fools, both of them. They speak so confidently of what they do not know. And Curufin grows ever more like Father with every passing moment…”

Maedhros glanced over at him, his lip curling in distaste.

“Mmm, a silver tongue and a perilous temper to match. Joyous…” 

Slowly he stood, rolling his shoulders left stiff from where he had been leaning, and wandered towards the doorway. He paused as he reached the door’s frame, turning back to face Maglor, still sitting at the table, his long braid snaking over his shoulder, the loose strands of hair at its end splayed like black filigree over his blue jerkin.

“Well, I’m off,” Maedhros said jauntily, “I’m going to find Fing…” And then he paused, the name dying in his throat, left hanging incomplete in the air between them. Almost imperceptibly, he flinched, closing his eyes for the briefest moment, a taught quirk passing over his lips as he fought down the rush of emotion that swirled sickeningly within him. He opened his eyes once more, gazing distantly towards the windows, and faintly said, “Nobody. I’m going to find nobody. Nobody at all.”

And his gaze flickered across to Maglor, half-dreading his reaction, disgust, revulsion even. But the sorrow that he found there, the raw pity shining in his brother’s gentle eyes shook him, wrenching all the harder that nameless, aching emotion carving its way through him. 

“I am sorry, brother. Truly.” A whisper. Its quiet sibilance lapped at the edges of the room. 

And suddenly Maedhros turned, unable to bear it, his brother’s terrible _understanding,_ his pity, the acknowledgement of his actions and the burning humiliation that spilled out with it, his darkest secrets uncovered, laid bare and dissected before him, for them to sneer at, for them to judge him. Anger and shame and agony all smashed together and warped tore at him, the crush of feelings writhing in his stomach, coiling in his lungs, and he raised a trembling hand, brushing back his hair from where it fell in burning strands across his face. His back turned, not trusting his voice, he uttered tersely, “I’m sorry too. I’ll see you tomorrow then, at court,” before striding quickly from the room, his head bowed.  

Maglor sat alone in the hall, quietly watching the golden quality leach from the air, its grand radiance replaced with subtle silvers; colder perhaps, and paler, but no less beautiful.  As the last glimmers faded, he smiled sadly, and reached beneath his chair, plucking a small harp from a bag stashed there earlier, thrown aside once his father had hurriedly called their meeting. His fingers ran over the strings, a chorus of sweet notes humming through the air, and slowly he worked into a rhythm, a lilting melody sifting from the endless possibilities, the infinite potential of the strings stirred to life in his hands. And as their notes echoed around the hall, sadly he thought of his brothers, his father, their concourse earlier and what actions may come of it. _Until tomorrow then, Maedhros_ he though forlornly, _tomorrow, and whatever misfortunes the new day shall bring._  

 

* * *

 

For the ease of the reader, all names have been left in Sindarin form. I know, I know, they probably should be in Quenya, but then that drags up issues of using mother-names versus father-names, with the odd epessë or nickname thrown in to thoroughly confuse everyone. So, for clarity's sake, Sindarin names shall be used forthwith.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this little series, which is soon to be updated. ( _I know, how unusual for me!)_  As always, comments shall be treasured. May your day be free of rampaging Balrogs.  _theeventualwinner._


	2. Potential

Shadows curled about the edges of the forge, their gloom cast in murky contrast to the red heat of the furnace, its coals glowing like livid cherries. Tongues of flame licked up its ash-blasted sides, its wide mouth cut into the bare stone tapering to a thin ventilation shaft, venting smoke up and away from the interior of the room. Dug deep into the foundations of the great hill upon which Tirion sat, the rough-hewn walls stood in silent witness to the House of Fëanor’s best-kept secret. Far above, his usual airy forges lay openly about his property, frequented by labourers and nobility alike. They birthed some of the finest creations ever wrought in Arda; clearest crystals set in glittering diadems, strands of gold and silver woven as if they were thread into intricate necklaces and shimmering bracelets; the coarse, rude metals refined and sculpted under Fëanor’s skilful hands to works of unparalleled clarity and beauty. But below, in a subterranean cave unbeknownst to any save Fëanor and his sons lay another: a forge for steel, for iron, for the most secret works and devices. And it was here now that Fëanor laboured.

With a swift tug, he pulled a glowing blade of steel from where it nestled amongst the coals, feeling its raw, pulsing heat even through his thick leather gloves as they gripped tightly about a crude hilt. Its crossbars flared out a little lower down, sloping back inwards to a long, slightly curved blade an inch in width. Their rough shapes were already defined by hours of work; hissing gouts of molten steel poured and pressed into molds, sheets of fluid metal folded, cooled and folded again, the unrefined silhouette of a sword slowly solidifying until it could be perfected.

With the swift, efficient movement born of centuries of practise, he turned, laying the sword across the dark anvil sitting adjacent to the furnace. He blinked as the glowing afterimages danced before his eyes, smelling the acrid tang of metal sizzling against metal. Wiping the sweat from his brow against collar of his tunic, poking from beneath his heavy smith’s apron, he grabbed a solid hammer from the menagerie of blacksmithing tools arrayed upon a nearby table. He weighed it for a moment, juggling it slightly within his gloved hand, his eyes locked upon the still-glowing blade before him. And for an instant it was as if he could see within it, see all of its folds, where rivulets of iron and carbon knitted together at an atomic level, he could pierce through its secrets and so master it, take it and shape it for himself. Readied, he gripped the hilt of the sword firmly within his left hand, and with his right swung the hammer down in one ringing crash. The impact jolted up his arm, and he flinched a little at the shock of it, his shoulder jarring weirdly in its socket. Tiny sparks of metal exploded away from his strike, most of them harmlessly pattering against his apron, but some flicking across his bare arms, the thin film of sweat that shone there doing little to shield him from their stings. He shook his arm away in irritation, a frown knotting his brow.

 _That was an amateur’s mistake_ , he thought, _the wrong angle of impact._

Scowling, he examined the metal closely, satisfying himself that no damage had been done to it. He noted its red tinge fading back to grey, and sighing in annoyance he thrust the metal back into the furnace. As it reheated, he strode across the room, gathering a bucket of icy water drawn from one of the underground rivers that flowed through a nearby cavern, an unexpected discovery while expanding his house’s foundations some centuries ago. Placing it near the anvil, he checked on the steel, and determining that it was not yet ready, walked swiftly to a wooden shelf bolted into the wall. His eyes ran over the six unsheathed longswords that lay across it, each forged by his hand from the finest steel, the light sliding like liquid crimson down their sharpened, three and a half foot lengths.

Their grips were wrapped in midnight leather, their scabbards maroon and inlaid with golden filigree at the chape, with an eight-pointed star wrought of smoothest silver set into the locket, rising almost seamlessly out of the leather. Each sword was identical, but for the egg-sized jewel sunk into the pommel; a different stone for each of his sons. A great ruby for his eldest, its dark facets glistening as if a clot of blood were trapped in the crystal; a clear sapphire for Maglor, pallid against the steel but for a knot of cobalt swirled through the gemstone’s heart. An elegant emerald for Celegorm; for Caranthir a dark sapphire, tending towards an indigo hue, deep and strangely murky. A glittering diamond cut for Curufin, wraithlike amid the cold steel, and for his youngest a pair of matched emeralds, two halves cut from a single great jewel that he had mined himself, its delicate green like the shimmering rays of Laurelin caught in the shiver of the morning dew. One studded the pommel of a sword already, the other waited beside it to be sheathed in its own metallic home, twin weapons for twin brothers. Behind the swords lay a line of battle-helms, their wide cheek-guards cut like sloping wings. Plumes of dyed swan’s feathers spilled from their midlines, a shock of red carving through the silver metalwork.  

A faint, self-indulgent smile played at the corners of his lips as he turned back to the forge, once more pulling the red-hot steel from the furnace in a spray of burning embers. He took up his hammer again, feeling the metal shudder beneath his blow, the rills of shock running up his arm, but this time with a measure of fluidity, the impact absorbed with practised, professional technique. Gradually he settled into a rhythm of strikes, the metallic tattoo clanging about the cavern, the refracted sound into a chorus of strange echoes by the cavern walls. Time slipped from him, caught almost trance-like within the swing and crash of his hammer, every minute adjustment instinctive, the knowledge of where to place his blows, when to re-heat the metal blooming in him like something visceral, this innate surety guiding his hands. After a time, he began to slow, his hammer strokes becoming softer, more precise, until with a jolt he snapped from his mechanical reverie, coldly appraising the well-formed blade lying before him. Laying aside his hammer, he grasped the sword’s hilt, flicking it upright in his fist as he examined the taper of the blade with eagle’s eyes, precise and calculating.

 _Seven swords,_ he thought, _for seven sons. And plumes red as blood to match their shining steel._  

Satisfied, he quickly returned the cooling metal to the furnace, carefully watching until he judged the metal to be hot, but not made malleable. He pulled it out once more, then with a twist plunged it into the bucket of water nearby, grinning as the water bubbled and hissed, little blisters of air running over the blade before they evaporated in a boiling cloud of steam. He held the seething metal underwater, the violence of its intrusion rippling slightly through its length.

 _Good_ , he thought, _the metal must bend a little, must show its flexibility, else it shall snap. Ironic._ A sneer curled over his lips, marring his handsome features. _I am done with flexibility. My brother’s insult will be suffered no more. His infection will be destroyed._

Thrice more he tempered the steel, passing it first through the furnace, then quenching it in water, hardening the metal, solidifying its structure. At last content, he left the sword immersed within the still-bubbling water, leaning against the bucket’s edge. Wearily he walked around the forge, rolling his shoulders, loosening his muscles long stiffened with fatigue. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a stained rag he found lying amongst a clutter of iron scraps, then rolling his eyes as he realized he had succeeded in smearing himself with whatever remains clung to that rag, although whether it carbon or rust or some metal oxide he was unsure. Grimacing, he wiped it off his forehead with the inside of his wrist, at the same time smoothing back the locks of hair that had escaped his ponytail during his exertions and now clung to his cheeks in slick, itchy strands. He pulled off a glove, re-tying his hair, as he wandered over to the workbench, before taking up a smooth whetstone, and a length of rough-grained sandpaper, tucking them into the pouch at the front of his apron. Crossing the room, he lifted the sword free of the water, and with his bare hand tapped a finger down the length of the blade, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally he was content that he could find no fault in the metal, no unevenness or weakness to mar its integrity. 

Thus, he moved to a stool by the workbench, sitting with the blade angled away from him so that he could look down its length, examining the run of the dull steel, the indent of the fuller narrowing and rising to the central ridge, which then tapered off to a formidable point. He took up the whetstone, grinding it down the blade, honing its edge until it shone bright in the glare of the furnace, a weapon to cut through flesh as if it were butter, to part muscle and shear bone, a point to puncture organs. The scrape of stone against metal set his teeth on edge, but he ignored it he once more working to a machine-like rhythm, running the whetstone down the blade careful and gentle as a lover.

 _We are infected_ , came a sudden thought, images of his brother jumping unbidden into his mind. _And if the tissue is infected, how best to treat the wound? Exorcise it, with sweet herbs and spells sung in the twilight, with all of our gentle arts nurse it back to health. And though it may bleed, the scabs will peel, dark blood and pus flowing like ichor over pale skin, eventually the wound will be clean, it will heal, and the blood will run pure and red and pumping. Then we stitch up the skin, with needle and thread knit it back together. And the scars will fade and we can be whole again._

Gradually, he began to alternate the whetstone with the sandpaper, flaking away the dull, fire-blasted layer of steel to reveal its shimmering core; the metal stained a deep, ruddy crimson by the glowering embers of the furnace. Structurally it was complete, but for the inlay; the pale emerald waiting to be bound within the socket of the pommel, with the metallurgy and spells of his craft set within the steel. The grip needed wrapping, the blade an inscription, simple tasks to be finished later. And after a time, spent in silent, meticulous work but for the hiss of scraping metal and the odd crackle of the coals, he was still, the sword shining keen and new in his hands. 

_But what if we fail? What if the infection cannot be countered, if it proves resistant? Where sweetness and magic founder, what course then remains?_

He flicked the sword up, a grin breaking across his face, all twisted lips and pointed incisors as hungrily he stared at the blade, watching the light drip down its razor edge, moiling across its flat. His eyes gleamed, and softly he purred,

“We amputate the limb.”

 


	3. Weightless

The pale glimmer of Telperion’s light filtered through the window, illuminating the interior of Fingon’s room in pallid silver. Crammed bookshelves spilling over with scrolls and leather-bound scripts occupied two full walls, looming over a large mahogany desk squashed into the corner nearby, just beside the window left slightly ajar. The desk was cluttered with old notes and inkpots, quills strewn over pages of writing, drooling ink blotches over the neat Tengwar lines flowing over the paper. Books on history lay flung open, slotted through with parchment notes; scrolls with detailed anatomical studies lay unrolled, annotations scrawled frantically around their edges in spiderlike handwriting. Aside from the messiness of the desk, the rest of the room was austere, a modest wardrobe standing next to the wooden door, a nightstand adorned with a blown-out candle, and large double-bed beside it, pushed up against the cream walls. And within the bed, curled up on his side with the blue silk sheets tangled between his legs, lay Fingon, fast asleep.

His black hair lay unbound, a midnight waterfall splashed across his pillow. Light glistened across his bare back, a thin sheen of sweat softly shining in the blood-warm air, highlighting the gentle rise and fall of his ribs, the shift of his vertebrae under his skin as he stirred slightly in his sleep, the tremors of a dream reaching through into the waking world. The papers on his desk fluttered as a breeze floated through his window, though it brought no respite from the heat. The humid air clotted in the room, borne on a fell wind from the furthest east beyond the great Pelóri, where mountains spewed their boiling entrails into the air, and the scorched plains blew desolate and arid below. Something rattled lightly against his windowpane, causing Fingon to twitch slightly, some reflex reacting even from the depths of sleep, but then everything was still, and he relaxed once more, his breathing even and rhythmic through parted lips.

_Crack!_

Something hit against the window, hard, and with a start he jolted awake, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. For a moment he froze, lying stiffly in the bed, his ears strained for any further noise, any signs of alarm. Hearing none, he frowned, weariness calling him back to sleep, but some instinct blared within him, screaming at him to get up, to move…

_Crack!_

He saw it, a pebble smacked against the glass with nearly enough force to shatter it. And a second later, a whisper from outside, taught and urgent:

“ _Fingon! Fingon, are you there?”_

Confused, he quickly untangled himself from the sheets, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he noticed how sweaty they were, for the first time feeling the humidity hanging in the room. He stood, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, then crossed over to the window, unconsciously pulling his undergarments further up over his hips from where they had slithered lower in his sleep, adjusting the thin cotton sticking to his thighs. Warily he inched the window open further, sticking his head out and peering blearily about.

“Fingon!”

The voice came from below, oddly familiar, though the note of tension in it was strange, jarring weirdly in his head. And as he twisted, squinting downwards into the courtyard, in a shadow by an ornamental hedge he caught the briefest flare of red hair spilling down a pale arm. With a sudden rush of relief he sighed, knowing instantly who it was, although the purpose and manner of his unannounced visit left him utterly bewildered. 

“Maedhros,” he called softly, not wanting to awaken the rest of his household, “I’m here. What…”

But before he could even complete the sentence, Meadhros moved, slipping silently from where he crouched, crossing the distance between the hedge and the walls of Fingolfin’s house in three bounded strides. His boots hardly made a sound on the flagstones, and just as Fingon was wondering what on earth Maedhros was intending, what he was even doing here, Maedhros ran, and _jumped,_ his fingers latching firmly onto the windowsill inches below Fingon’s bare chest, where he looked down at his cousin’s suddenly much closer face with blank astonishment.

For one terrible moment Maedhros dangled there, Fingon paralyzed with shock just above him, until Maedhros hissed,

“ _Fingon, let me in! Now!”_

The terrible urgency in his voice startled Fingon, and swiftly he ducked back inside his room, shoving the window open fully, and grasping Maedhros’ wrist and arm hauled him upwards, suddenly grateful for his years of sportsmanship and hunting, as he bore his cousin’s weight easily, pulling him efficiently, if a little roughly through the window. As Maedhros wriggled his legs through, narrowly missing kicking over a chair cluttered with geological diagrams and a leather riding jerkin flung over its back, Fingon let him drop, whirling to slam the window shut behind him.

Glancing nervously through the pane, he could see no signs of discovery, no guardsmen or errant family members wandering through the grounds, as his sister was strangely wont to do during the silver hours. As he turned back around, Maedhros clambered to his feet, straightening his tunic where it had crumpled awkwardly around his chest as he fell.

“Maedhros, what are you doing here? What…what time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. It doesn’t matter.”        

Fingon watched him warily, dusting off the edge of his pine-green tunic, then shaking out his arm, that was crushed uncomfortably beneath him with his none-too-gentle trip through the window. His cousin looked exhausted, dark circles smudged beneath his hazel eyes, their whites dull and bloodshot. His fiery hair was a tangled mess, its usually smooth waves frizzed and knotted, as with a sigh he brushed it back over his shoulder, turning away from Fingon to stride towards the door, sliding its lock shut with a thump that echoed around the room. Slowly Maedhros turned back to face him, not meeting his eyes, his jaw working with some repressed emotion that Fingon could only guess at.

“What is the matter with you? Maedhros, you look terrible. Here, sit down.” Fingon swept a pile of papers off of the chair, dumping them on top of his desk where they slithered uneasily. Flinging his jerkin onto the bed, he twisted the chair around, looking at Maedhros beseechingly. But Maedhros ignored the proffered chair, leaning half-curled against the door, his fingertips white and bloodless where they pressed against the wood. His head bowed, a few locks of his hair dripped across his cheeks in burning rivulets, as Fingon looked on in increasing worry. _Like a wounded animal_ , he thought suddenly, his throat clenching. _Like a fox caught in a snare._

“Maedhros…” he started, his voice carefully kept low and even, but before he could continue, Maedhros’ head snapped upwards, his wide hazel eyes staring like knives into Fingon’s, yet in a curiously pained tone he said,

“Don’t go to court tomorrow.”

The words hung in the air between them, as if trapped in the viscous humidity, locked within the pallid light. Fingon stared at him, his brow crinkling in confusion, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

_This is what he wanted to tell me?_

He regarded Maedhros for a brief second, half-formed thoughts and fantasies and guesses as to his meaning raced through his mind, before he sighed, shaking his head slightly in tiredness and irritated confusion.

“What?” he asked sharply. “Maedhros, _what are you talking about_?”

“Please!” There was an urgency in his cousin’s voice that gave him pause, some dreadful note of pleading that pierced through his annoyance, and he looked at Maedhros once more, his face softening as his cousin spoke. “Please…just don’t. Do this for me. Just don’t go.”

Maedhros straightened, with a wavering breath sliding upright against the door, still staring at Fingon with an inscrutable, dark expression.

“Why? Why would I not go? I have every right to be there.”

And Maedhros looked away, his eyes flickering towards the worn floorboards, a spasm of pain flitting over his face before he could stop it, a tight quirk of his lips, the slightest knot of his eyebrows. But Fingon caught his expression, a cold feeling of doubt suddenly blooming inside him.

“Maedhros, what is it? What is wrong?”

But he pushed down his doubt, stepping towards Maedhros where he still leaned against the door, with his right hand reaching out to touch him; to smooth down his hair, to stroke the side of his face, his fingertips wandering his freckled cheekbones, sliding across his jaw, such reassuring little touches that he had made so many times before…

“Don’t! Don’t touch me!”

Maedhros recoiled, violently, knocking his hand aside, curling away from him to hover beside the bed as Fingon stared at him, aghast. Maedhros’ back was turned, and he could see the shake of his shoulders, the slight trembling of his hand as he reached up to push his hair back from where it had fallen, like torrents of molten steel frozen in ice, limned in the pallid light. Fingon paused, hurt and confusion swirling within him, a whirl of doubt and dismay flecked with little droplets of fear, eating away at him like acid through skin. Warily he stepped forward, and steeling himself he asked, his voice taught and hesitant but he had to ask, he had to _know_ ,

“…Maedhros, why…why are you saying this?”

And suddenly Maedhros sat, perching on the edge of the bed as if his legs had collapsed from underneath him. His hands curled into fists around the edge of the mattress, the sheets balled up between his rigid fingers. He closed his eyes, and sighed, his words sounding like they were forced from somewhere deep down inside him, burning their way up his throat.

“I can’t…I shouldn’t be here. My father, he…he knows. About you. And me. About us. He has forbidden me to be anywhere near you. To put an end to these “disgusting rumours” as he called them. I…I’m sorry, Fingon. I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t have come, but you had to know, I had to tell you…”

Abruptly his head jerked upwards, the sheer desperation in his eyes making Fingon flinch with its intensity.

“So please listen, _please!_ Do not go to court tomorrow. Tell your father you are taken ill, or that you are called away, or anything, but _do not go._ ”

And Fingon stood over him, his lip curling in exasperation. 

_“Tell me why._ ”

His whisper echoed through the still air, its jarring sibilance seemingly amplified, ringing harshly into the brittle silence that fell. Then Maedhros sighed, passing one hand across his face in weariness, his words falling simple and pure from his lips.

“I cannot. To be honest, I do not even know myself. But my father, he…” Maedhros paused, looking up at Fingon, pain welling in his eyes. “Well, you know his opinion of my uncles, and he was saying such wild, dangerous things…I do not know what he intends. I do not think he knows himself. “

With that, Maedhros stood, walking over to the window, and inched it open once more. He paused, his hand resting against the sill, a faint breeze stirring the ends of his russet hair, setting them dancing like little tongues of flame against his dark tunic. Turning back to Fingon, he tried to smile, an awful, broken grin twisting across his lips, his cheeks quivering with effort of it.

“For the sake of our… _friendship_ , Fingon, for our family, I would not have you stand between us. I would not have you in danger.”

Then Fingon’s expression softened, some part of him understanding; the truth, the sorrow in his cousin’s voice reverberating in him on some visceral level. The sad ghost of a smile touched his lips, as he regarded Maedhros standing so forlornly by the window, his usual exuberance quenched, staring back at him with hollow eyes. 

“I will do what I can.”

And for an instant he saw relief flare in Maedhros’ eyes, watched him exhale a breath he didn’t know he had held, the tension visibly shuddering through his shoulders. 

“Thank you, Maedhros. I know what you risk by coming here tonight. Thank you.”

“I have to go,” came the quiet reply, as Maedhros shifted slightly, readying himself to jump to the courtyard some feet below. And Fingon turned, not wanting to watch him go, not wanting him to see the tears that jumped unbidden into his eyes, the terrible wobble of his jaw as furiously he bit down to still it. And he waited, to hear the shift of fabric against wood, the soft crunch of his boots hitting the stones below, but instead Maedhros’ low, aching voice trickled through the silence, making him start, each word puissant and crushing and filled with sorrow.

“...Fingon, whatever happens tomorrow, know that I had no part in its making. _Please_ , remember that. I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

And the agony in his voice seemed to break in Fingon’s ribcage, it felt like his heart was trying to smash its way out of his chest, and he whirled, viciously fighting down the scream that clawed its way up his throat, that clotted in his lungs, and crossing the distance between them in two explosive strides he grabbed Maedhros where he half-sat on the windowsill, and kissed him. One hand twined through his hair, the other curled up around his back, as desperately, passionately he kissed him, their tongues sliding against each other as if they could meld into one, take each other’s pain and rip it out all broken and bleeding, crumple it up and just throw it away, until they could be together, be healed. An eternity crashed into seconds, fuelled by anger and lust and fear; a slick, giddying crush of emotion that roared as Fingon kissed him, his nails digging into the skin beneath Maedhros’ shirt, hot tears slide from beneath Fingon’s lashes, carving silver and silent down his flushed cheeks. And after what could have been heartbeats, could have been centuries, locked together in such aching, urgent passion, he felt Maedhros push backwards against his hand, his lips slipping away, and reluctantly Fingon released him, his fingertips caressing his freckle-dusted cheekbone, sliding tenderly down his back. They parted, a sad smile lingering on Maedhros’ lips, distant and yet peaceful, as he stared out of the window, the pale light silhouetting him in a corona of silver, muted and ephemeral and so achingly beautiful.

“I have to go,” he breathed, reaching out to softly stroke Fingon’s jaw, with his thumb brushing the tears from Fingon’s cheek, before leaning in to kiss him once more, just a light, melancholy press of their lips together, so softly parted, so agonizingly final.

Then slowly Maedhros withdrew, turning fully upon the windowsill, swiftly glancing around the courtyard, and at the cobblestones below. And without another word he was gone, the sudden void of air where he was making Fingon blink in surprise. He jumped over to the window, leaning out to catch one last glimpse of him, and was rewarded only with the briefest flash of red, the ends of Maedhros’ hair flicking out as he darted behind a hedge, slipping like a shadow through the dim twilight, back into his father’s dominion.

Fingon stared out over the silent courtyard for a while, revelling in the cool breeze flowing over his bare chest, flushed with the sticky humidity and the lingering heat of Maedhros’ body pressed up against him. The nearby trees shifted, their leaves rustling softly, a quiet sibilance rippling through the air.

“How?” he whispered, to the streams of silver light shimmering through the empty court. “How could they know? We were always so careful, we kept everything so secret…” Sadly he looked up, at the countless stars twinkling far above him, as if they would tell him, as if they knew; but the stars told him nothing, and the light held its silence. Morosely he sighed, seating himself horizontally upon the window’s ledge, all thoughts of sleep banished from his mind despite his weariness. One bare foot dangled against the warm wall outside, the other leg he curled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around it, his chin resting on his knee in a curiously childlike pose. Dappled in the light, distantly he gazed at the stars, pinpricks of radiance like phosphorescent candles set amid the silver pallor. And desperately he wished he could walk up there with them, high above the world and he would look down and he would know, with the certainty of the One he would _know_ what to do. But forlorn he sat, gazing up at them so cold and terrible and distant, doubt tugging at him, and a hollow pit of worry thumping with each beat of his heart.

_First Maedhros, and now this_ , he thought sadly, _I have heard the whispers too, but my uncle…Surely he knows my father bears him no ill will. And what offence have I given? These rumours spring out of the walls, warped and twisted out of the ground, and their true source I cannot find. Wheels turn within wheels, something blocks our sight, ever slithering through the darkness where we are blind…_

_But does my uncle not know? We are not deaf, we are not blind either. For long months the courtiers have brought rumour to my father._ _“Beware the proud son of Míriel, firstborn heir of your people. Small love does he have for his brothers and their sons, and now he has become great! He holds his father in his hand! It will not be long before he drives you from the city!”_

_…Would he really? Does he hate us so much? That of his own kin he would make exiles without just cause?_

_And Maedhros says to stay away, to leave. But how can I? I must stand by my father, support his innocence in whatever deluded lies my uncle throws at his feet. It is my duty, no matter the danger that Maedhros hints at. I know my uncle’s will is strong, but to draw blade against his own blood? Even he is not so foolish. He would not risk the punishment._

_I will go. I must go. I will not bow down silently before one who would condemn me merely for being born._      

_I’m sorry, Maedhros…but I will be at court. And I pray that you are wrong. I pray that your visit tonight was unnecessary. Please, do not force me to choose between you: my father and my…cousin._

_Please don’t make me have to make that choice._

_For truly, I do not know where my heart would land._


	4. The Plunge (1)

The marble pillars of the king’s entrance hall loomed up around them, stretching like the trunks of colossal trees to a high-vaulted ceiling, its opalescent dome narrowing to a single white spire poking from the building’s exterior like a needle puncturing the sky. Standing in the midst of the circular room, craning his head back, Amrod stared up at the ceiling, marvelling at the intricate sculpting of the arches, the brilliant hues of the stained glass studded into the roof casting colourful, abstract shapes against the white marble columns. Beside him, Amras also gazed at the ceiling, twisting his neck in annoyance as it was rubbed raw by his starched, itchy collar, the formal court attire ill at ease on him. As he moved his head, the slight shift in perspective sent the room spinning, some trick of depth melting the pillars into one another the further up he looked in a swirl of dizzying vertigo. He shook his head to clear it, a fiery torrent of curls spilling around his face as he glanced around the hall, looking for his father whom he was supposed to meet. At the thought, a faint wave of nausea coiled in his stomach that was not entirely to do with the vertiginous hall.  

The outer doors of the room were swung open, the guards shimmering in pale livery, and between them strode his father, a leather-wrapped bundle tucked under one arm, and the look in his eyes was grim. Behind him trailed Maedhros and Maglor, their faces grave, and to his surprise Amras noticed the sheathed longswords buckled over their formal robes, their gold-capped scabbards and jewel-studded pommels shining bright and keen. The doors were swung shut behind them, but Amras caught the glint of concern in the guards’ eyes, noted one slipping surreptitiously out of a hidden side-door. For an instant he considered telling someone, but the moment passed, and his father was stalking towards him, with his two elder brothers close behind. He nudged Amrod with his elbow, the fool still staring incredulously up at the ceiling, oblivious to the happenings around him. Amrod swung around, then glimpsed his father, his eyes also lingering in confusion upon the sword clasped at this waist, the bright war-helm upon his head, and the reinforced leather pauldrons buckled over his shoulders. 

The two parties met in the centre of the courtroom, with an odd sort of apprehension. Wordlessly, Fëanor appraised his two youngest sons dressed in their finery; blood-red velvet jackets and cream breeches apiece, with heavy chains of gold hung about their shoulders. Truly they were mirrors of each other, from the riotous tumble of their auburn hair, to the expressions of mild bewilderment currently occupying their faces. Swiftly, Fëanor drew two sheathed swords from within the leather-wrapped package, handing one each to his sons, who accepted them in astonishment, their eyes wide. Pale emeralds glittered in their pommels, ephemeral against their dark maroon scabbards and belts. Both twins stood, caught between surprise and awe, drinking in their father’s gifts. Amrod grasped the hilt of his sword, with a hiss sliding it a small length from the scabbard, admiring the silver gleam of the steel, the exquisite workmanship of the metal that could only have come from the hand of his father himself. Yet while Amrod fawned over his gift, Amras held it warily. After a moment of deliberation, he looked innocently up at Fëanor, tentatively asking,

“Why are you giving these to us, Father? Do not mistake me, indeed I am grateful. This is a mighty sword…but I do not understand the need…”

Some note of worry in his brother’s voice pierced through Amrod’s excitement, and slowly reason returned to him; some awareness of what he held, and where he was. He stared hard at the sword in his hands, and frowned, confusion swimming in his azure eyes. 

“But father, it is forbidden to go armed before the king,” he said, looking sharply at his father. “This is your father’s law…”

“Quiet! Both of you!” Fëanor rounded on them swiftly, the vehemence in his voice causing Amras to flinch, little sparks of worry flaring in the pit of his stomach. “Do not contest me in this. I have forged for you these swords, they are…gifts, nothing more. You will bear them, or you will leave my company.”

Fëanor glared at them expectantly, and reluctantly both twins fastened the scabbards around their waists, each slide and hitch of the buckle passing over the holes punched through the leather like a noose slipped tighter and tighter around their necks. From beneath the fall of his hair, Amras shot a despairing look at Maglor, standing over his father’s shoulder. But almost imperceptibly Maglor shook his head, the tightness of his lips betraying the angry, futile words that had already poured between them, to no avail. Wincing inwardly, Amras chanced a glance at Maedhros, and almost instantly regretted it. Maedhros looked _terrible_ ,he thought, his hazel eyes bloodshot, flickering distractedly around the hall, never quite focusing on anything. His cheeks were pale, and there was an unhealthy pallor to him that made Amras nervous; his fist clenched all too tightly around the grip of his sword, a weird jerkiness in his breath; dark smudges like bruises blossoming beneath his eyes. It felt so alien to see his elder brother, usually so vivacious now left so hollow, for reasons unknown to him. But he could hazard a guess, and hit near the mark, watching Maedhros standing there so miserably, as if he wished the ground would swallow him up, that he could just disappear. Amras pushed his suspicions aside, now would not be the place nor time to bring them up, and with a twinge of pity he settled the belt around his waist, the sword snugly balanced across his left hip. He looked up at his father cautiously, not knowing what to expect, but Fëanor smiled at him, and Amrod in turn; a dazzling, wide grin that did not quite touch his eyes, all of its warmth bled into the icy depths of his dark irises.   

And Fëanor turned from his sons, pacing before the great carven doors of the throne room, the iron plate of his helmet flashing erratically as he strode between two pillars.

“He’ll be here,” he muttered to himself, the words like barbs stuck through his throat, “the usurper, Fingolfin. And my pandering fool of a little brother. Oh he’s so quiet, so passive, but ever they conspire together. I know it. I can see it in their eyes. It shines there like sin. Under the light of the Valar they plot to overthrow me, and the Valar in their _arrogance_ will do nothing…”

Fëanor’s sons clotted together in the middle of the room, flashes of consternation passing between them as they watched their father pace, listened to his voice growing in strength and passion, until suddenly Maedhros lurched forward unsteadily, as if he was drunk, with Maglor stepping worriedly after him, one hand tightly gripping around his arm.

“Father! Do not speak of such things here!”  

Maedhros’ voice burned, each syllable taught and strained as Fëanor whirled to stare at him. And Maglor could feel his brother’s pulse through the fabric of his shirt, beating unnaturally hard beneath his skin, could feel his bicep shaking, although whether from anger or fatigue or genuine illness he did not know. Regardless, he slipped in front of Maedhros, standing between him and their father, one hand still reached behind him to hold Maedhros’ arm in whatever pathetic attempt at shielding him he could muster. And with the most level, reasonable voice he could manage, he looked his father in the eye, and said: 

“Maedhros is right. This is blasphemy. Father, you cannot presume to know the will of the Valar, not their extent of their influence in these matters. They…”

“Silence!” Fëanor shrieked, stepping menacingly towards his eldest sons, as Maglor in turn tightened his grip upon Maedhros’ arm, his knuckles showing white beneath his skin. “Now even my sons take turn to speak against me?!”

Fëanor stalked up to Maglor, a pulsing vein split down the middle of his forehead.  His eyes were caustic, sweeping over his sons with a palpable force, and to his horror Maglor felt Maedhros sway behind him, already unwell and now faced with his father’s wrath. Praying that he would not faint, Maglor clenched his hand harder around Maedhros’ arm, awkwardly helping to hold him steady. A small distance behind them, even the twins were cowed. They stared sullenly at the floor, unwilling to meet their father’s eye. Fëanor stopped just short of Maglor, and with a look of disgust and exasperation spoke:

“Can you not see the bars of the cage even when they are pointed out to you, plain before your eyes? Here we are trapped, prisoners in a cell that we chose for ourselves, all of those years ago. Oh, are jailers are kind, they feed us, they pet us; but their food is rotten, their caresses leave blisters. We have served our sentence here; freely we came, and free we should be to depart. But everywhere I turn I am blocked, struggling like a fly caught in a web, trying to break free but only entangling itself further…”

“Father, _please_!” Maglor’s voice echoed around the hall, the pillars refracting the sound into a warped susurrus of pleading half-syllables, sending shivers up his brothers’ spines. Fëanor’s lip curled, his head cocked dangerously to one side, and with a predatory fluidity he grabbed the lapels of Maglor’s tunic, pulling him close, with Maedhros awkwardly dragged forward a step as well, Maglor’s hand clamped around his arm, unable now to let go even if he wanted to. Fëanor’s blazing eyes bored into Maglor’s own, and he tugged Maglor closer, their noses almost touching, a snarl of fury twisted across Fëanor’s face only an inch from his son’s. 

“ _Well, the webs must be severed!”_ Fëanor whispered, spitting it into Maglor’s face, and with a look of contempt releasing him. After a short pause, he reached up once more, roughly rearranging Maglor’s ruffled lapels, smoothing his tunic back down. With some difficulty he bit down his fury, as an attempt at an amicable smile forced its way across his face, and he sighed, before continuing bitterly, “if rebellion is what it takes, then that is what the Valar shall have. I would be free to wander the world without, the world of my birth, taking whomever and whatever I like to be my company. Damn them, if they think to lay claim on me, or anything I have made! For I know that they lust for the Silmarils, I can see it glimmering in their eyes, in every greedy twitch of their fingers. They would take them; they would hoard them for themselves, denying their creator his right. No, I say! I will suffer them no longer! How willingly I would lead our people to freedom, deliver our mighty race from thraldom, if the Noldor would but open their eyes, if they would follow me!”

And with that, Fëanor strode to the throne-room doors, with one shove pushing them open, sending them squealing on their hinges. He paused for an instant on the threshold, a shocked silence blaring from the filled hall before him, before drawing himself up like a lion readying itself to pounce, and marching into the throne room.

In the sudden emptiness of the outer hall, with a start Maglor released Maedhros’ arm, his stiff fingers unlocking, guilt flooding through him as he saw Maedhros absently rubbing his arm where his fingertips had bitten. With a quick, despairing look at the twins, he ran towards the throne room, determined to stand witness to his father’s actions, whatever they might be. And after one horrible moment of silence he heard three sets of footsteps take off after him, relief rushing through him as together, four sons of Fëanor ran into the throne room of their king.  

To be continued...(soon)


	5. The Plunge (2)

Finwë, High King of the Noldor sat upon his throne with feline grace, a crown of shimmering strands of wrought silver sat proudly upon his brow. Raised upon a tiered dais, he surveyed the great hall, coolly eyeing the white marble floors melting away into shallow alcoves carved into the pale walls. Intricate sculptures stood in each recess; figures locked in granite combat, delicate frescoes of Elves and the Valar, the two great trees depicted in exquisite silver and flowing gold. At the far end of the hall, before the doors stood two Maiar, servants of Manwë sent as a kingsguard, and as beacons for peace amongst the Noldor. They glimmered in plate and mail armour; their strange, silvery eyes scanning the hall for sign of trouble, but their stance was easy, their swords hung relaxed in their scabbards, seldom put to use in these halls. Before Finwë’s feet cut an empty swathe of space, his courtiers gathered in quiet discussion in little clots about the corners of the room. Scholars and tradesmen mingled with the minor nobility, amicably discussing supplies and demand of metal ores, the newest writings from of the wordsmiths, opportunities for commerce with the Telerin cities by the sea, laughing idly over the minor gossips and intrigues of the court. But amid the groups of smiles and banter stood his second son, Fingolfin, alone and grave before him.

Finwë observed him for a moment, hesitating to formally bring the court to order. Fingolfin’s manner was tense, his hands clenched around the wide cuffs of his cobalt robes, his fingers digging into their rabbit fur lining. His dark hair was braided in an unusually formal style, a sleek rope of midnight black hair falling to his waist, his eyes a deep, striking blue beneath a plain band of silver resting across his forehead. He stood calmly enough, waiting for his father to announce him, but the hard lines scored around his lips and the stony set of his jaw betrayed a brittleness that left Finwë uneasy. Swiftly, he glanced right, where his grandchildren stood aside from their father. Turgon, casually leaning against a statue with a worryingly roguish air was murmuring something in Aredhel’s ear, his eldest granddaughter radiant in a dress of cream, studded with clear crystals like a spray of stars, paling in beauty only in comparison to the mischievous smile curving across her delicate features. But Fingon, the eldest, was mute to their gaiety, biting his thumbnail nervously, his tired eyes skittering about the hall as if he were looking for someone, with a mixture of jittery excitement and dread. But as Aredhel gently touched his arm, no doubt to include him in whatever ribald joke Turgon was so eloquently telling, he flinched visibly, pulling away from her, and staring hard at the floor in terse silence. Finwë’s eyes flickered back over the hall, this time noticing with a thrill of surprise his grandson Curufin standing alone, opposite his cousins, leaning against the far wall and seemingly scanning the crowd disinterestedly.

Setting Curufin aside, in a flash Finwë had appraised Fingolfin and his children, and was troubled by what he saw. He noted with some worry the absence of Elenwë and Argon, Fingolfin’s wife and youngest son, and inwardly despaired. His son was more like to rashness without her cooling presence, and Argon always was in possession of a level head in times of pressure. Finwë possessed one firebrand in the family already, and had little patience for two. With some apprehension then, Finwë rose, holding up one hand for silence, then pausing a moment for hush to fall, conversations snuffed out like candles as the courtiers awaited their king’s word with an easy curiosity. Looking down upon his son, he entreated him come forward with one sweep of his arm, and in a clear, deep voice that reverberated around the room spoke:

“Well, Fingolfin, you have requested for us to meet and take counsel together. Now, my son, tell me, why do you seek audience with me, and in such a formal manner?”

And with that, Finwë sank back onto his throne, his elbows resting upon its arms as with some small twinge of trepidation he awaited his son’s reply. Fingolfin’s mouth twisted harshly, contorting his usually pleasant features into a scowl, and abruptly he stepped forward, sparks of anger flaring within him.

“Father,” he began, his voice dripping with an icy bitterness, “will you not restrain the pride of my brother as it oversteps its bounds? For too truly he was named ‘Spirit of Fire’! It burns like a withering flame within him, devouring all in its path!”

The silence in the hall would have proclaimed a dropped needle as deafening. The king and commoners alike stared at Fingolfin in blank shock, his stinging vitriol seemingly unprompted, even as the first mutters of consternations broke through the hall, snatches of dissent rising to Fëanor’s defence.

“By what right does he speak for all our people, as if he were King?” Fingolfin continued, his powerful voice silencing the whispers from the audience. “His speeches of rebellion, of defiance of the Valar, this _blasphemy_ echoes through our halls, and we hold him unchecked.

You it was who long ago spoke before us, bidding us accept the Valar’s invitation to these blessed lands. You it was who led our people along the road through the perils of the wild, to the bliss of our realms. You it was, father, who brought us here, and now Fëanor openly disgraces your actions. I ask of you only this: that if you do not now repent of your choices made so long ago, then you control him, forbid of him these wild and dangerous words. Two sons at least you shall have to honour your will, for Finarfin and I at least remain to you faithful.”

This last proclamation rang about the hall, frozen in glassy shock at this torrent of emotion from their prince, usually so calm and thoughtful. Finwë felt the first stirrings of horror rise in his stomach, reaching up with cold tendrils to pluck at his heart, and slowly, amid the gradually rising susurrus of voices from his courtiers, he opened his mouth to reply…

But before a word passed his lips, the great doors swung open, crashing against the inner walls, sending the Maiar guards scrambling out of the way in surprise. And between them strode Fëanor, a mighty sword at his side and a war-helm upon his head, its blood-red plume carving through the silver metal. With a predatory gait he stalked the length of the hall, coldly appraising the assembled elves who melted away before him, clearing a path to where Fingolfin stood firm, regarding him icily as he approached. And a heartbeat later, four of Fëanor’s sons sprinted through the doors, skidding to an abrupt halt as the silence of the hall crushed down on them like a tangible weight.    

They stood in a ragged group at the far end of the hall, its marble floor sweeping away before them, empty but for the bands of courtiers staring at them in shock. Gathering themselves, they stepped forward, Maglor leading the way, trailed by an exhausted-looking Maedhros, and Amrod and Amras bringing up the rear, sticking tightly to their elder brothers. Their footsteps rang eerily loud amid the silence, the haughty eyes of the court piercing through them, lingering on the bright swords buckled around their waists; a fickle tension crackling in the air. The scant twenty metres they had to cross felt like an eternity, each footstep like moving through treacle, the air made viscous. They approached behind their father, fanning out behind him to appraise their uncle and their cousins warily. And as Maedhros laid eyes upon Fingon, half-hiding behind a statue, he blanched, what little colour was left in his cheeks fleeing, his breath catching in his throat as he swayed unsteadily. Seeing Curufin standing to his right, and with Maedhros on the verge of an embarrassing collapse, Maglor locked one hand about his elder brother’s elbow, calmly steering him to the side of the hall behind Curufin, propping him up against a marble sculpture, half-turned towards the wall. Amrod and Amras slid in beside Curufin, creating the slightest of walls between them and the eyes of the court, and quickly Maglor lifted Maedhros’ chin, staring him straight in the eye from where he slumped downcast against the statue. And in that instant he knew, all of those secrets and whispers and hints coalesced into cold fact, the pain in Maedhros’ hazel eyes, the tremble of his jaw beneath his fingers saying more than words ever could. Maglor winced, now was _not_ the time for his brother to fall apart, and pulling together what resolve he could, Maglor looked at Maedhros sternly, the warning read unspoken across his face.

And faintly Maedhros nodded back, straightening up, and then taking one huge gulp of air walked out to stand behind Curufin, his face haggard but impassive. Maglor followed swiftly after him, his attentions now mostly focused upon his father, who glared darkly at Fingolfin.

“So it is,” Fëanor spat, “even as I guessed! My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters!”

And in two vicious, explosive strides he closed the gap between them, pulling his sword free of its scabbard with a hiss, holding it before him in a fighter’s stance, his eyes burning as he stared at Fingolfin, a snarl twisted across his face.

“Get thee gone, and take thy due place!”

Suddenly the hall burst into noise, the courtiers crying out in dismay. The two Maiar started forward, pushing through the crowd, even as Turgon lunged forward, unarmed as he was, in some attempt at aiding his father. But he was brought up short, Aredhel grabbing his arm and yanking him back, yelling at him to consider his actions. Opposite, Fëanor’s sons looked on in mingled horror, Amrod and Amras’ hands creeping uncertainly to the grips of their swords, Curufin reaching slowly backwards for the hilt of a dagger concealed at the small of his back. But amid the general outcry, its perpetrators stood quite still, the point of Fëanor’s bright sword hovering inches from Fingolfin’s chin, as the brothers stared at each other in mutual loathing. Abruptly Finwë stood, his face hard, and above the noise roared:

“Fëanor! What is the meaning of this?! Restrain yourself! You do not know the consequences your actions wreak!” 

A brittle silence fell once more, each pair of eyes in the hall fixed intently on the princes. But Fëanor stood as if frozen, glaring at Fingolfin with such malice that it seemed to pierce right through him, the tip of his sword quivering. Time seemed to congeal, each second stretched into hours, until finally Fingolfin snorted, looking disdainfully at Fëanor. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel, and before the throne bowed stiffly, before hastening from the hall, a deep frown sunk between his brows. And at that Fëanor started, yelling after Fingolfin’s retreating back: 

“No! Not this time, brother! This slight shall not pass so easily!”

And with a snarl of rage, Fëanor turned, hurrying out of the hall in pursuit of his brother, his sword flashing with each step, the crowd parting before him like a hot knife run through butter. Fëanor’s sons glanced at each other, then with an unspoken agreement strode out of the hall to follow their father, Curufin eagerly leading, the dagger now firmly gripped within his fist, while Maedhros and Maglor lingered in the rear. To his concern, Maglor noticed his cousins doing likewise, unobtrusively slipping past the marble statues at the sides of the hall, following their father outside, Turgon and Aredhel leading, while Fingon trailed behind them, desperately trying not to make eye contact with his cousins. Worried, Maglor glanced at Maedhros, but he seemed collected, focusing on their father’s retreating form with an inscrutable expression, instead of other, more distracting factors. Internally sighing with some measure of relief, Maglor hurried them from the hall, chasing after their father and uncle through the entrance hall and outside. 

As the great hall quickly emptied, the assembly filing out to follow the two princes, Finwë was left alone, and sank slowly back onto his throne, his hand passing over his face in weariness and dismay. He looked upwards to the ceiling as if for supplication, his crown slightly askew on his head where his hand had brushed it. 

“Fëanor. Fingolfin,” he whispered softly, his brow wrinkled in a confused frown. “My sons…what dark whispers conspire to inflame you so? A stain has been shed on the House of Finwë this evil day, when brother draws sword against brother. Would that I knew aright the cause, then we should settle this foolish feud, stamp out the flames before they kindle to wildfire.”

He sighed heavily, sadness welling in his dark eyes.

“My own sons…How have you fallen so low?”    

* * *

Well done, and thanks to anyone who's gotten this far. Consider this story on a mini-hiatus at the moment, as life and sudden inspiration for another project have steered the wheel away from this one. But fear not, the day shall come again when once more I update this story. And it shall be a day to remember. xx 


	6. Ignition

“Brother, stay! I would have words with you!”

Fëanor’s voice rang out from beneath the arches of the royal palace, cracking like a whip through the quiet courtyard lain before him. He was flanked by a row of thick pearlescent pillars, a wide flight of marble stairs descending before his feet, upon which Fingolfin was poised, halted in torn mood between leaving and confrontation. Behind Fëanor, through the great doors left flung open by his passage, the courtiers began to trickle out in a wary stream, fanning into a broad semi-circle, every eye fixed upon the two princes. Their children mingled amongst the throng, the company of Fëanorions passing to the right, and Fingolfin’s children to the left, elbowing their ways to the forefront of the crowd on opposite sides of the circlet, and looking on in silent horror. 

Fëanor’s sword was still drawn and it glimmered in Laurelin’s golden light, every facet of the brilliant metal set ablaze as he stared down at Fingolfin’s back, his dark eyes piercing. His unbound hair rippled out behind him as it was caught in a sudden gust of wind, jet-black tendrils snapping like restless serpents about his shoulders. And below him, Fingolfin was still paused, wrestling between reason and anger until with a sudden jerk he twisted around to face Fëanor. His jaw was set proudly; anger bristled in his stride as he climbed the stairs towards his brother, in a loud, fell voice crying:

“And I would _not_ have words with you! Let me be, Fëanor. Your delusions have damaged us enough, and I would not have us come to blows because you cannot distinguish fact from wild fantasy!" 

Fëanor coloured, his neck and cheeks mottled in an unpleasant crimson as he regarded his brother with disgust, his lip curling as Fingolfin advanced towards him. And how insufferable his brother’s demeanour; his arms crossed defiantly over his chest in his insolence, an arrogant smirk seeming twisted across his face, as Fëanor shrieked: 

“Enough! Ever you seek to undermine me! To usurp my favour with our father, you and Finarfin both, like venomous snakes in the nest!” 

“Brother this is _untrue_ ,” Fingolfin cried, halting scant steps away. A whining, desperate note echoed in his voice as he stared in dismay at Fëanor, imploring him to see reason. “Has hate made you so blind? What actions have I ever taken against you? What hurts have I caused? None!”

And at that, Fëanor scoffed, hatred burning in his eyes as he clenched his fist harder around the grip of his sword, still held outstretched before him. But Fingolfin stepped forward to challenge him, a vicious fury twisted across his usually placid face as crush of emotions rushed up through him, every little sparks of resentment ignited to wildfire by Fëanor’s treacherous words. His breath hissed through his teeth as he lunged forward, grabbing the flat of Fëanor’s blade and pushing it aside as he leaned in towards his brother, spitting,

“No. It is you who causes hate, causes hurt, sowing this strife within our family. Your words breed poison, twisting your own truths until you come to hate them, and their blackness spills over me and mine. If you seek blame for my so-called betrayal, look within yourself first!”

And for a moment all was still, all was quiet, waiting in awful, tremulous anticipation of what was to come. Then something inside Fëanor seemed to snap with a force that was almost tangible, the air seemed to ruck and shimmer about him for one horrifying second, then in a blur of motion he grabbed Fingolfin with his free hand, a great handful of fur and velvet robes clenched in his fist. With a snarl of rage he whirled, dragging Fingolfin around before slamming him up against a pillar, the back of his head hitting the marble with a percussive ‘thunk’ that sent a ripple of consternation through the stunned onlookers. Livid, Fëanor wheeled his sword around, its point pressing hard just below Fingolfin’s collarbone, gathering the material of his tunic in a rumpled dent beneath its tip. Slowly, a dark stain pooled under the blade, spreading like a gore-streaked rose across the breast of Fingolfin’s robes. Fëanor sneered, and he seemed fey, peering at Fingolfin’s suddenly pallid face with an alien intensity, his sword-hand shaking even as it pressed the blade harder against Fingolfin’s chest.

“See, half-brother,” he said, his voice eerily calm, yet each syllable was brittle with strangled restraint, taught and jarring. “This is sharper than your tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid us of one who seeks to be the master of thralls!”

A ripple of dissent spread through the crowd of onlookers at Fëanor’s proclamation, angry mutters bursting out amid his supporters and enemies alike. A few elves began to step forward, to intervene, to pull the princes apart, but before they could reach them Fingolfin snorted, all of his derision and hatred thrown into one telling noise. He reached up, smacking Fëanor’s sword aside, unflinching even as its tip scored a bloody line across his chest.

He stepped forward a fraction, forcing Fëanor back a step to avoid them colliding, and in that moment the static seemed to snap, Fëanor’s sword dropped back to his side, hanging limply in his hand. Fingolfin carefully extricated himself, all the while staring hard at his brother, an indeterminate emotion between fear and hatred and disgust caught across his face. He slipped around Fëanor’s unmoving form, glancing at the circle of astonished elves before stalking away, the ring of onlookers melting away before him as he strode towards the staircase, descending without so much as a look backwards, his back held straight and proud. 

A moment later his children followed, Turgon storming angrily away as Aredhel frantically whispered something in his ear, her slender fingers clasped tightly around his arm, while Fingon seemed to waver. He fidgeted nervously with the braided ends of his hair, staring hard at the ground, before slowly he followed his brother and sister down the steps, not daring to look back at the crowd, not daring to look back at his cousins, cold waves of nausea spreading from the pit of his stomach.

His brother fled, Fëanor suddenly stirred, like a sleepwalker jolted back to consciousness. Calmly he turned around, sheathing his sword, the tip of his blade shining crimson before it slid into the scabbard with a wet hiss. And even as he moved, the crowd dissipated, the courtiers slipping off in every direction, unwilling to look him in the eye. But his sons remained, warily awaiting their father, staring at him with expressions ranging from horror to mild disappointment. Fëanor looked around at the swiftly retreating backs of the courtiers, his lip curling in disdain, before moving over to join his sons, proudly commanding:

“Come. We must retire. Let those who have heard ponder my words, and may the gods give them the wits to find the truth in them.”     


	7. Embers

“How dare he?” Fingolfin growled, stalking around the mahogany table. “How dare he threaten me like that, before the halls of our father, in front of our people?”

His brother Finarfin watched him carefully as he paced, seated at the head of the table beneath a woven tapestry mounted upon the wall; twin serpents with emerald eyes locked in a spiralling embrace upon a star of yellow and cream hovering over his head. His chin rested on his steepled fingers as Fingolfin spoke, his hair falling in long blonde braids about his face, artfully pinned with pearl clasps in the shapes of outstretched wings.

As he paused, Fingolfin looked over at him sharply, as if expecting a reply, but Finarfin was reluctant to be dragged into the turmoil of his elders, and merely shrugged, patiently waiting for the storm of his brother’s anger to blow itself out. 

“He drew his sword on me!” Fingolfin exclaimed, one hand reaching up to touch the wads of padded bandages wrapped around his upper chest, where the point of Fëanor’s sword had cut. “He set it right against my chest. And he would have done it too, had I pushed him further. He would have slain me, his own brother, he would have run me through like a boar sent for slaughter!”

Fingolfin sighed at his brother’s muteness, wriggling his shoulders as he paced, and wincing as the wound jostled unpleasantly with the movement. He carefully adjusted the fabric of his robes, the soft folds of indigo falling more easily over his shoulder, before continuing mournfully,

“Well, I thank the Valar that he had an audience. His crimes cannot pass unmarked, and in some part they may have helped to stay his hand.”

At that Finarfin nodded sagely. He was all too aware of his eldest brother’s temper, and what it took to restrain him.

“But what harm have I done him, Finarfin? Tell me truly, look at me, and if I have hurt him in any way speak it now.”

Once more Finarfin shrugged, a small, sympathetic wince curving over his lips as he regarded his brother from across the room.

“Your silence speaks for you. I have done him no wrong. And I will not tolerate this behaviour, nor endure his scorn for these delusional slights.”

“What is it that you imply, then?” Finarfin asked, his gentle voice scarcely more than a murmur, yet somehow carrying throughout the wide, airy room. “You cannot take up arms against him. He remains our brother, though you may wish it otherwise; and the laws of our father and the Valar forbid the shedding of blood within this city.”

Suddenly Fingolfin whirled, his dark eyes flashing angrily.

“Do not bring Father into this!” he hissed, leaning heavily against the table, his knuckles showing white as his fingers dug into its wood. “For where was Father when Fëanor’s sword was at my throat? His heir flouts his laws, openly speaks of rebellion and violence in the streets of Tirion, and yet our king is silent?” 

He sighed, looking across at his brother beseechingly.

“I do not wish to speak ill of our father, Finarfin, but his lack of action saddens me. I know well that he loves Fëanor fiercely, and us none the less, but his behaviour _cannot_ be allowed. The memory of his beloved Míriel clouds Father’s mind; blinds him to the faults of their son, even though he sullies everything she stood for. Oh, it is impossible!” 

He flung himself down into a chair, scraping its legs across the pale marble of the floor. The muscles in his jaw worked as he bit back further, nastier remarks, and he glared down at the dark whorls within the wooden table, as if he could incinerate them with the sheer force of his gaze. 

Across from him, Finarfin stirred, brushing his plaits from his shoulders as he leaned forward.

“You act like a pair of squabbling swans,” he said wryly, “trying to best one another for dominance, all flashed beaks and ruffled feathers.”

“Finarfin,” Fingolfin replied silkily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as he strove desperately for patience, “mention swans to me but once more…”

He trailed off, kneading his forehead as Finarfin pouted, crossing his arms in mock irritation across his chest in childlike imitation of a sulk.

“Would you not speak to Father of these things, then?” Finarfin asked gently, regarding the sullen slump of Fingolfin’s shoulders, and resolving to use the patience so often required of him when dealing with his own children’s squabbles. With some disappointment he bit back down no less than three further swan metaphors that leapt to mind, instead calmly continuing, “Take Father aside, in private, and air your grievances. Then lay the matter to rest.” 

“And have Fëanor throttle me when he finds out? For find out he would. Finarfin, you don’t understand, you weren’t there. _He would have killed me._ He would have shoved his sword through my chest and he would have smiled as he did it. Something burned in him, something I have not seen the like of before. I would not tempt his wrath further. Nor rely on Father’s sense of justice when dealing with him.”

“Then what is it that you wish to do?” Finarfin prompted.

Fingolfin sighed, his eyes flicking up to meet his brother’s, seemingly struggling to find an answer.

“I…I do not know exactly. I had rather hoped that you would advise me on that. They say you are the wisest of us all.”

“You flatter me,” Finarfin laughed, before sobering quickly, “but to no avail. I do not know any more than you what course you should take.”

Both brothers were quiet then, each caught up in his own thoughts, and the silence stretched long between them.

“Have you asked your children?” Finarfin queried at last. “This concerns them as much as you, and they may have insight that you do not.”

“I have, but in the end their opinions prove fruitless. Turgon is furious, and wishes me to openly confront Fëanor about his accusations, to convene a court before the Valar and the King. This speaks of wisdom, through I am reluctant to do so. I would prefer that we handle this with delicacy, and not make any more of a spectacle than we already have. Aredhel has little love for her uncle, but she is concerned less with politics, and is indeed quite fond of her cousins. She urges me to watch, and be careful, as does Argon, and I am inclined to listen. And Fingon..." 

Fingolfin trailed off, little glimmers of sadness sparkling in his eyes.

“Ah, Fingon,” Finarfin smiled knowingly, and not without pity. “This must be… _conflicting_ for him.”

“I know what you imply,” Fingolfin rounded on him sharply, and Finarfin recoiled a little, the ease slipping from his face as he stared at his brother warily. “Long have I known about it, what he and his cousin get up to in the silver hours, but I thought it just a phase, a silly time of youth. But now I perceive that it may be more serious. Fingon will barely meet my eye, he scarcely sleeps…Fëanor has banned Maedhros from his company, and the threat of his retribution hangs over them. I see it take its toll, day by day. Nonetheless, I doubt Fingon would wish me to do serious harm to his uncle, if only for Maedhros’ sake.”

“Ah, conflicting opinions indeed.”

“Yes. And I do not know the counsels of my own heart.”

“Then let them become apparent,” Finarfin urged, a startling intensity crept into his brilliant sky-blue eyes. “Take time. Do not be inactive, merely adopt passivity. If Fëanor should challenge you again then accept it, and may the Valar judge him justly. But do not provoke him. Give him no cause to seek you harm.” 

Fingolfin pondered his words, one slender finger tapping absently against his chin. 

“Mmm, perhaps this would be a wise course. And I shall instruct my children in it also. They shall swallow their feelings where they threaten to be overwhelming, as I have done.” 

“And what of Fingon? He may not be so easily dissuaded.”

“I am his father,” Fingolfin said sternly, “and he will obey me in this. It would be best that he separate from Maedhros I am sure, but I know the follies of youth, and the recklessness that comes with desire. I will speak with him, and express my disapproval, but in the end his decisions must be his own. I shall only impress upon him the consequences of his actions, should any further be discovered. Not only for him, but for my nephew.”

Finarfin smiled ruefully, before softly replying,

“Perhaps it is the kindest way. I do not envy you, brother. I, for one, intend to stay as aloof as possible from these mattes. I have no desire for confrontation with Fëanor, and in turn he has brought no quarrel to me. I would have it remain so. My family and I shall remain in the city, but we shall openly take no side, if indeed this argument comes to blows. However, I will speak with our father on your behalf, and ask him to take these matters into hand.”

Finarfin rose, and Fingolfin also, grasping his brother’s proffered hand tightly.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Finarfin said, “and may we put these ill events behind us. And should you need my advice, I remain always your steadfast friend.”

“Thank you,” Fingolfin replied simply, yet sincerity ran where words failed him.    

Quickly, Fingolfin turned, slipping through the door with a much calmer demeanour than the manner in which he had entered, Finarfin thankfully noted. Left alone in the room, he sighed wistfully, before rousing himself. For a while, at least, he hoped that Fingolfin’s anger would subside, and Fëanor would hold himself in check, and that their children would follow their examples. Yet some dark sense of foreboding chimed in him, tendrils of unease twisting in his stomach, but determinedly he brushed them away, striding from the room to the pavilion just outside, and onwards down to his gardens. His shadow stretched long and warped across the soft grass in the wavering light that signalled the beginning of the Mingling, fiery gold rays tangled gently with pallid silver, and he ducked behind a large ornamental hedge, winding his way towards the swan-pond where his great birds dwelt and played. He wandered in ponderous thought down the sculpted pathways, slipping slowly from the iridescent light, and into shadow.   


	8. Interlude

_The oak tree. Two hours past Telperion’s waxing. Urgent._   
_-M_

Fingon crumpled up the scrap of parchment in his hand, smearing his cousin’s hastily written words together in a blur of ink. He strode through the forest, following the winding game-trail through the shadowy trees, silver ribbons of light filtering slowly through the dense canopy far above him. The quiet felt strange in his ears, the peaceful hush of the sleeping woodlands somehow taught, strained; the susurrus of the wind through the leaves twisted to menacing whispers, shadows curled like wisps of clotted darkness against the tree-trunks. He walked uneasily, those grounds so familiar now fractured and weird, almost suffocating, like wading through the dread viscosity of a nightmare. He fingered the hilt of his knife, its sheath shifting against his left hip with every step, its warm leather-bound grip some small reassurance as he pressed uncomfortably onwards.

A twig snapped behind him and violently he whirled around, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. He crouched, soundlessly slipping his knife halfway from its sheath, watching with a hunter’s focus the dark trail behind him, his eyes narrowed to catch the slightest glimpse of movement, the faintest signs of pursuit. Without warning, something leapt onto the path, a great shadowy form and he jumped in surprise, half-risen to pounce upon it, a fighter’s instinct fuelled by pure, racing adrenaline. But the figure turned from him unconcernedly, and as it did a stream of light fell upon it, and he saw the brown run of fur, the slender twig-like legs, and the curious eyes of a doe peering back at him. He stared at it in surprise, as it cocked its head placidly at him, before moving off into the bushes once more. He watched it go, shoving his knife back into its sheath before rising, shaking loose his shoulders to relieve the tension that had knotted there.

 _A deer_ , he chided himself, _a little doe had you jumping out of your skin like a child_.

Angrily he shook his head, before stalking once more down the path, little shreds of embarrassment mingling with the last rills of shock, sliding down his throat to coil in his chest. As they settled there they wakened something else, and he remembers why he had come, sneaking about like a thief in the shadows at the mere beck of his cousin. The first sparks of frustration stirred in him, spurred on by what it meant if he were to be discovered in this illicit venture. His father had impressed upon him the delicacy of the matter, and reminded him in no uncertain terms what his uncle’s retribution would bring if further events were exposed; ruin for not only himself, but a vengeance that would fall doubly hard upon Maedhros. But the situation had changed after what Fëanor did, drawing his sword upon his father while everybody just stood there, everyone just let it happen, and to his disgust _he_ just let it happen, standing there paralyzed as his father bled before him. So he had to know, if this was to be a confession or an apology or just awkward silence between him and his cousin, he had to know, no matter the consequences.

And so he had come, stumbling through the forest like a lovesick puppy looking for its master. The thought soured in his mouth, little shards of bitterness seemed to flick out from his heart as before him the dense woods fell away to a small clearing. The grass sighed in the cool breeze, wafting in soft luminescence to the base of a great oak tree stood in the center of the clearing; its ancient roots sunk deep into the earth, narrowing to a gnarled trunk, a spray of brilliant leaves limbed in argent light rustling up above.

Warily he glanced around, and catching no immediate sign of his cousin he stepped out into the clearing. His footsteps were nearly silent among the grass as he crossed over to the tree, and for a moment he rests his hand against its knotted trunk, his eyes closed. He smiled faintly as he felt the warmth of its wood, its intricate whorls spiralling out beneath his fingertips and there he remained for a few moments, trying to calm the confusing rush of emotions within him. He would approach his cousin neutrally, he decided, pushing down all of the frustration that squirmed inside of him; he would try to broach whatever it was that Maedhros wanted rationally, detachedly.

After a minute or so Fingon realized that he was not alone, every instinct set suddenly blaring, and he opened his eyes to find his cousin standing beside him, staring at him with a startling intensity in his hazel eyes. His hair poured like a torrent of flame down his back, curling softly in the breeze, and in a strange moment of clarity he watched Maedhros’ hair shift, its fiery glint at worrying odds with the pallor of his cheeks, the shadows smudged like bruises beneath his eyes. And with a sickening lurch something twisted inside of Fingon, every little fragment of anger and betrayal and worry smashed together inside of him at the mere infuriating presence of his cousin, and he glared viciously up at Maedhros, the emotions like a boiling spear punching out of his chest before he could stop them, and in one breathless instant he saw the alarm flare in Maedhros’ eyes. But before he could move, before either of them really knew what he intended Fingon swung his arm around, an ugly snarl twisted across his face as he slapped Maedhros hard across the left cheek.

Maedhros recoiled in surprise, his hand flying to the smarting welt blossoming across his cheek, and Fingon stared at him in horror, the echoes of pain rippling up from his palm left pink from the blow. Like a candle left to splutter amid a pool of melted wax that burning rage dissipated, sinking instead to an uneasy, bitter smoulder, and Fingon moved uncertainly forward, to where Maedhros leant against the tree-trunk, his hand still clasped to his cheek.

“What was that for?” Maedhros asked plaintively, looking up at Fingon in confusion, desperately blinking back tears from his eyes left watering by the sting of his slap.

“I think you know what, Maedhros!” he replied, his sharpness surprising even himself.

Maedhros looked at him despairingly for a second, before pushing himself away from the tree, turning away from Fingon, the muscles in his jaw working. He was silent for a moment, his head bowed, before softly he replied:

“Fingon, that is unfair.”

“And how so?” Fingon shot back, glaring at him. “Your father assaults mine in the streets of Tirion, draws blood before the halls of our king and…”

“You think that was my fault?” Maedhros broke in, turning quickly back to face Fingon, his arms crossed over his chest. In the silver light, the mark on his cheek was livid. “I told you, I will promise you again, here and now, that I had nothing to do with that. My father’s actions were not mine. They are not mine.”

Fingon snorted derisively, subsiding into a sulky silence, his lip curled in distaste. Both cousins glared at each other, the air frozen and brittle between them. Then with a sigh, Maedhros softened, breaking away from Fingon’s accusatory eyes to look sadly down at his boots.

“Please, Fingon,” he said quietly, “I did not know. How many times must I say it?”

Fingon did not reply, instead shrugging non-committally, a look of annoyance still carved across his features. He made as if to move away, but suddenly Maedhros’ hand grasped his upper arm, holding him in place, his cousin’s fingertips pressing uncomfortably hard into his bicep.

“Fingon, I did not know of my father’s intent.”

Fingon brushed his hand away, staring sullenly up at him.

“But you should have done something, Maedhros. You should have stopped him!”

“Do you think I did not try? I begged him, with Maglor beside me, we begged him to stop, to reconsider, but do you think he would listen to us?” Maedhros sighed exasperatedly, brushing a few stray curls of hair behind his ear. “You know him, you know full well what my father is like. The Valar themselves could not stop him if he sets himself to a path…”

Maedhros broke off distractedly, before a new thought occurred to him, and he raised his head, staring sharply at Fingon.

“But why were you there? You promised me that you would stay away from all of this. Why were you there?”

“What was I supposed to do, Maedhros?” Fingon snapped back, but the anger in his voice wavered, replaced instead by uncertainty, as he shifted awkwardly under his cousin’s piercing gaze. “I couldn’t _not_ go. And I know that I broke my promise, and I’m sorry, but my father…I…I had to be there. I had to know.”

“That’s it? That’s all you can say? After all that I risked by coming to see you, to warn you…”

“Maedhros, I…I’m sorry…”

 _“I could have kept you safe!_ ”

Maedhros’ shout rang in shock clarity around the clearing, the echoes of his voice seeming to linger in the rustling of the leaves above them. Fingon stared at him in horror, cold threads of worry knotting in the pit of his stomach.

“What?” he asked tentatively, dreading his cousin’s reply. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Maedhros muttered, turning to lean against the bole of the tree, the splintery wood pricking into his back as he slumped dejectedly against it. He would not look up at Fingon, murmuring instead to the soil beneath his boots, “It’s nothing…just forget it.”

For a moment Fingon stared at him: the stark whiteness of his fingertips where they pressed against the bark, his face half-hidden in shadow from the tumble of his hair. The silence stretched unbearably between them, each lost in his own troubled thoughts, until finally Fingon could stand it no more, and softly he asked:

“Do you know what will happen now?”

Maedhros shifted against the tree, a brief spasm passing over his face, as if he was in pain.

“No”, he replied hoarsely, “I…I don’t want to think about it.”

“You cannot ignore it,” Fingon pressed, looking pointedly at his cousin.

“Please, Fingon,” Maedhros whispered, still not meeting his eye. “Please don’t…”

“Maedhros, this isn’t something that will just go away, you have to…”

But even as he speaks Maedhros swung wildly around, something dangerously close to madness in his eyes, and he pushed Fingon roughly against the tree-trunk, his shoulder blades crunching painfully against the wood. Maedhros’ hand forced his chin up, and an instant later his cousin’s lips pressed hard against his own. Fingon’s head snapped backwards with the force of it, knocking into the tree-trunk with a solid thump as Maedhros shoved into him, and he winced despite Maedhros’ lips on his: shock and confusion warring with the sudden rush of unwanted passion that swirled up within him. But something in Maedhros’ kiss was wrong, where tenderness should have lain there was only desperation; as he tried to make him stop talking, stop those painful truths from pouring over his lips, and Fingon could feel the awful tremor of his cousin’s jaw as he pushed up against him.

Where desire ran, anger did also, and perhaps it ran the greater, as with a sudden wrench Fingon slammed his hands against Maedhros’ chest, shoving him forcefully away. Bitterly they broke apart, Maedhros stumbling backwards a few paces as both of them snatched a moment of recovery, each attempting to order his scattered thoughts. Fingon was the quicker to master himself, what desire had flared so traitorously within him quickly stamped out by cold fury, and he watched his cousin carefully, unsure of how to react. But Maedhros barely seemed to register him at all, as he stared pitifully at the ground, a haunted glimmer in his eyes. Fingon could hear the gulps of air sliding erratically into his lungs, could see the beginnings of a bruise rising across his cheekbone, the mark bloody on his pallid skin. For a moment Fingon didn’t know what to do; anger at his cousin’s cheap trick to silence him still burning in his stomach, anger at his ridiculous inability to acknowledge the consequences of his actions, his father’s actions, and the ruin that they had wrought. But beneath it all, pity bled, as he watched his cousin standing there so miserably, looking so lost, his slender form limned in the faltering, ephemeral silver of Telperion.

With a rush of guilt Fingon opened his mouth to speak, to apologize even, but before he could utter so much as a syllable Maedhros shifted, almost imperceptibly. To the casual observer it would have been little more than the subtle change in stance when one tires, but Fingon knew his cousin better than that. And to Maedhros it felt like the world was collapsing, the graven pillars that held up everything he knew and loved, everything that was normal smashed away in one brutal hammer-fall, leaving nothing but a dull, empty ache spreading its chill tendrils through his chest. And he wished that he could just stop feeling, fade everything out into numbness and it would all just go away, he would wake up clawing at his sheets as the cloying tendrils of nightmare withdrew. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t make himself wake up; and it wasn’t fair or right or just, he couldn’t do anything but just stand there and hurt, the victim of actions far beyond his making, of events he wanted nothing to do with, but their blades sliced through him anyway.

Fingon stared at his cousin in dismay, not daring to move and scarcely managing to breathe, watching the awful, damned expression transfix across Maedhros’ face. But life was shocked back into his limbs as he saw his cousin’s jaw wobble, spied the tiniest slump of his shoulders before his knees began to buckle beneath him, and he lunged forward before Maedhros could fall, his arms wrapped around his torso as gently they sink to the ground. Fingon manoeuvres them into a sitting position, half-dragging Maedhros a few inches across the grass to rest against his right side; himself propped up with his back against the tree, Maedhros’ head leaning on his collarbone. His arm curls protectively around Maedhros’ shoulders, to no response, his cousin staring blankly off at some indeterminate point among the gently stirring grass, his fiery hair half-fallen over his face. Softly, Fingon reached across, stroking Maedhros’ hair back from his face, and he feels him flinch as his fingers accidentally brush over the bruise on his cheekbone.

“I’m sorry, Maedhros,” Fingon muttered, tightening his arm around him as he continued to smooth down his hair, fussing over him as if comforting a lonely child. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry that all of this has happened…”

As Fingon spoke, every soothing word he could think of dredged up from deep inside him, he felt Maedhros shudder, the tiny reflexive movements rippling through him, and he just kept speaking, unsure of what else to do. He spoke of every calming thing he could think of, not just for Maedhros, but for him as well, lapsing into fond memories of times long past: Aredhel’s first trip to visit their mother’s kin by the sea, her chubby little legs splashing amongst the waves as he held her hand; the day that Celegorm received Huan, his big cousin so proud and eager to show him off that he even let Fingon hold him, Huan’s fuzzy tail wagging happily in his arms as his wet nose nuzzled against his face, and he had laughed at the funny feeling; feeding his uncle’s great swans scraps of bread, and so excitedly he had leaned forward to watch their nibbling beaks that he almost fell in the pond, his father and uncle grabbing his arms at the last second, and he giggled as he swung in between their arms, kicking his booted feet in the air…

Suddenly Maedhros curled into him, interrupting his speech, his face crushed into Fingon’s chest, a wave of russet hair obscuring the silent tears that trickled down his face. Fingon hugged him even closer, his arms encircling his cousin as he sobbed against his chest, the weight of all that had come to pass reached its tipping point, and in one horrible strangling moment simply too much for him to bear. And Fingon just held him, cradling Maedhros to his chest as great heaving shudders racked through his shoulders, and he whispers every condolence, every assurance that he can possibly think of, but even as he said them they felt like a lie: he was no more in position to change their situation than Maedhros, both of them subject to the whims of their fathers, both of them equally helpless. Something inside him dimmed at the thought, a little sliver of hope withering into barren disappointment but quickly he stops himself, every ounce of determination he has within him brought to bear. Because even though he wanted to break he simply couldn’t, and he wouldn’t: if Maedhros was going to founder under this storm then he had to be the strong one, he had to help him weather it, and in grim determination he steeled himself, clutching Maedhros all the tighter to him.

Resolutely Fingon swallowed down the awful lump that stuck in his throat and contented himself to wait, his thumb stroking reassuringly over Maedhros’ arm as after a time his cousin’s sobs subside, fading slowly away to numb stillness as Maedhros clings to him, his breathing gradually steadying as he curls further up into Fingon’s side. With a sigh, Fingon rested his chin gently on his cousin’s head, waves of sudden tiredness washing through him as he closed his eyes, sinking at last down into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

The first glimmers of gold shone amid the wash of silver, the leaves of the oak tree stretched above them seeming to shiver as they sensed the light. One falls from its branch in the excitement, drifting in lazy loops downwards, and to its surprise it lands upon the head of a sleeping elf beneath its tree, with another held slumbering in his arms. Strange, it thinks, in its fleeting little leaf-thoughts, but it pays them little mind, perched daintily atop one’s dark hair, like a tiny guardian set to watch over them as slowly the woods awoke around their sleeping forms, at the coming of golden Laurelin and the herald of the new day.


	9. Venom

Golden light streamed through the high windows of Fëanor’s dining hall, bathing three of his sons in a shimmering, ephemeral glow. Maedhros and Maglor sat together, their backs to the windows as Curufin stood proudly at the far end of the table, gesticulating enthusiastically as he talked. Maglor listened to him with an air of strained patience, fiddling with the end of his braided hair in irritation as Curufin’s brash words echoed through the room. He squinted to his right at Maedhros, hoping for some sort of moral support as Curufin continued to rant, but Maedhros was sullenly sprawled backwards in his chair, gazing absently at the eight-rayed star emblazoned in crimson and glittering golden thread hung across the wall, a magnificent banner that centuries ago their mother had woven for her princely fiancé. Maglor eyed with some concern his brother’s hollow look; the strange yellowing bruise on his cheek, disturbingly vivid against the pallid, sickly tone to Maedhros’ skin that had become all-too pronounced of late. A slight frown crossed his brows, and reluctantly he turned back to Curufin, once more listening to the hateful words spilling from his lips.

“Father should have slain him then and there!” Curufin exclaimed, miming a sword thrust as he spoke, his dark eyes glittering. “He could have done, nobody would have stopped him. Indeed I would have helped!”

He smiled in satisfaction, an arrogant smirk twisted across his face as he flicked his sable hair behind his shoulders, looking coldly across the table at his brothers. Maedhros remained silent, seemingly unhearing of Curufin’s words as he continued to stare at the banner. His fingers drummed an erratic, faltering rhythm against the table as he wandered in thought, recent events turning over and over in his mind, and he paid little heed to the strident words of his sibling. Maglor however was not content to bear Curufin’s haughtiness unchecked, and he leant forward, a sternness gleaming in his deep blue eyes.

“Do not speak that way!” he began, a brittleness ringing his usually lilting voice. “It was horrific that our family should come to violence over something so trivial. Have words lost their power? Can we no longer settle our differences with reason, with intelligence? Or must we simply thrust our swords in each others faces, to threaten, to coerce; like beasts snarling over a kill?”

“You are too soft for such matters, Maglor,” Curufin sneered. “Go back to your songs, your fantasies, your harps and lutes and silly viols. Battles are fought with weapons, not words. It is the bright sword that slices through armour, the arrow that pierces bone…”

Abruptly Curufin reached behind his back, snatching up the dagger that lay sheathed against the base of his spine. He spun it around before slamming it down onto the table, its whetted blade glinting hungrily. Curufin leant forward, the hilt clutched within his pale fingers, his knuckles showing white beneath his skin as he gripped it, near grinding the crossbar into the wood.

“ _This_ is what wins fights, brother, not your useless words!” 

Maglor sighed, shaking his head in exasperation, and pushed back in his chair, regarding Curufin with a disapproving stare from across the table. But at his stinging words Maedhros unexpectedly shifted, a messy swirl of hair tumbling across his shoulders as he tilted his head, propping his chin up on his hand as he edged his elbows onto the table. His lips quirked thinly as he bit down the scathing remark he so desperately wished to make, but instead he opted for a milder course, hoping still to make his brother see sense.

“You speak of things that you do not understand, Curufin,” he said, his voice carefully kept level despite the stirrings of anger that plucked at his heart. “Weapons are dull, mute affairs. Yes, they are useful, but they are deadly. You cannot ask advice of a corpse. You cannot apologize to it. _Words_ give meaning to actions; they are the sparks, the catalyst. But how we proceed from there is up to us – the pen or the sword. The choice lies before you." 

Curufin snorted derisively as he straightened, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“That is the coward’s way out, Maedhros, and you know it. You heard what our uncle was saying! Slinking around behind Father’s back, undermining his standing with the king. He plots to overthrow us, can’t you see that? He tries to steal from you your birthright. You are the eldest, Maedhros, surely you of all people would care? The throne in time may be yours, and you would have it stolen from you?” 

Steely silence followed Curufin’s outburst, as Maedhros and Maglor stared coolly at him, unmoved. With a sigh of frustration Curufin sensed the mood turning against him, and turned to Maglor, glaring at him pointedly.

“And what of you, Maglor? Have you nothing to say? Your family’s honour is slighted, we are threatened to be dispossessed of our rights, and you would just sit here, and do nothing?”

“I have no wish to quarrel with my uncle,” Maglor replied gravely, a frown knitting his brows. “I do not believe that his intentions were aimed in malice. I think he truly wished the king to take a firmer hand on matters of court, and to seek the source of these rumours of insurrection. Do you not think it strange? For since when has our uncle ever shown the slightest sign of jealousy? When have our cousins ever grudged us anything?” 

“Always!” Curufin growled, a vicious light flaring in his eyes, shining in obsidian fury. “They have hidden it well, but it is there, lurking beneath the façade of friendship. Beneath their smiles they envy us, they always have. Like insidious little maggots they have wormed their way amongst us, _inside of us…_ ”

With his last remark Curufin looked snidely at Maedhros, his insinuation plain. Maglor winced, internally praying that Maedhros wouldn’t react, that he would not rise to the bait dangled so foolishly in front of him. But Maedhros sat like he was carved of marble, unfeeling, unseeing; unreacting as Curufin’s barbed vitriol washed over him, and inwardly Maglor breathed a sigh of relief, before focusing wearily once more on Curufin.

“…and we have welcomed them with open arms! They have bided their time well, but now we feel their poison.”

“Curufin, this is madness!” Maglor cried; every tendon in his hands locked rigid as he fought down the urge to clench them into fists. “What proof have you of this, what evidence?”

Curufin bridled a little, his jaw working, and Maglor seeing the weakness in his argument pressed forward: “You echo Father without thought, without care. But this cannot come from you alone. What say Caranthir, and the twins? And Celegorm?”

Maglor cocked his head oddly, a persistently nagging thought suddenly coalesced into clarity within him.

“Where _is_ Celegorm?” he asked, “I have not seen him at all recently.”

“The fool fell off his horse while hunting,” Curufin replied brusquely, rolling his eyes. “It is not serious, but I believe that Caranthir and the twins are keeping him company while Mother stitches him back up.”

Maglor nodded, a wry smile sneaking across his lips, which sharply disappeared as Curufin snapped: “But that is beside the point. You both have heard as well as I, it has been whispered in my ears by many: ‘Beware the sons of Fingolfin, for they wish to usurp the elder line of princes.’ Do you think I will stand idly by as rumour becomes fact?”

“Who started these rumours then?” Maedhros abruptly interjected, glancing at Curufin from beneath a wave of auburn hair. “Where is their source? I credit our cousins with enough discretion to keep their secrets if they so choose, so if not from them, where have these whispers come from? Answer me that, before you throw such wild accusations around.”

“It doesn’t matter where they came from!” Curufin insisted, his voice thin, a vein puling visibly at the side of his neck. “The point is that they are there! We need to take action before they can strike, to help Father rid our people of such parasites.” 

Maedhros looked away in wordless disgust, and Maglor sighed exasperatedly, crossing his arms over his chest as he strove desperately for a civil response, but he could not banish the glimmers of loathing from his voice as stiffly he said:

“You sound just like father; a little shadow spouting his rhetoric. Will you not stop to think? Why would you wish harm upon your own kin? Why do you seek out discord between us? Our cousins have always been close friends, from where comes this outpouring of hate?”

Curufin snorted, tossing his head in annoyance before he leaned menacingly over the table, the well-defined muscles of his forearms tensed as he hissed:

“Our cousins! Turgon is an insufferable bore even on his better days, Aredhel will scarcely stop from her hunts and her dances to give me the time of day, and Argon is always hiding behind his mother’s skirts, the little worm.”

His brothers looked on in appalled silence, as Curufin leaned further forward, the veins slowly rising beneath his skin from the pressure of his forearms against the table, his fingertips digging into the wood.

“And Fingon,” he spat, glaring maliciously at his brothers, “Fingon is always too busy with his lips around Maedhros’ cock to offer much in the way of conversation.”

“Curufin!”

Maglor’s voice jumped unnaturally loud through the brittle air, slicing through the sly susurrus of Curufin’s taunt left ringing through the room. Beside him, Maglor could feel Maedhros tense; every muscle in his body contracting like a wolf drawing itself up to pounce, the air seeming to stick in his throat as a cavalcade of blistering emotions boiled up inside of him. And so hard he fought to bite them back down, but with an unstoppable wrench they burst forth, and after one suffocating moment Maedhros leapt to his feet, growling:

“Enough! Throw your childish insults somewhere else, Curufin! I have little patience for them." 

Maedhros slammed his chair backwards, sending it squealing across the stone floors as he stalked around the table, and lightning flashed in his hazel eyes as they bored into Curufin’s own; dark pools of ink wetly shining. And suddenly Curufin seemed to waver, what arrogance he had worn fading a little as Maedhros strode towards him, something feral in his stance, something slightly unhinged in the furious scowl that twisted across his face. As his brother advanced, Curufin paled, stepping back a little in dismay as Maedhros spoke like one fey, the words hissing over his lips, searing through the air with their vehemence.

“Until I am given indisputable proof that our uncle and our cousins mean us harm, I will not believe these rumours, these _lies,_ nor will I take up arms against them. And I would advise you, _brother,_ not to antagonize me further, lest our next encounter become…regrettable.” 

Maedhros stepped up to Curufin, his height lending him an air of perilous menace that even Curufin’s insufferable pride quailed under, and he shrank backwards a little in apprehension, seeing the throbbing vein split down Maedhros’ forehead, the unearthly light flared in his eyes. With a resounding clunk Curufin backed into the table, its edge jamming into the backs of his thighs as Maedhros stood over him. An awful, ruined smile curved over Maedhros’ face, all skinned lips and pointed incisors as he whispered, spitting the words into Curufin’s face:

“Take your petty hatreds, and get out of my sight. _Now_.”

And Curufin went without another word, looking nervously up at the fell expression on his brother’s face. He snatched his knife back from the table, jamming it into its sheath as he slipped around Maedhros, suddenly reticent to spite him further. Despite his pride Curufin had cunning enough to know true rage when he saw it, and recognized the need for organized retreat, glancing warily once more at the murderous look on Maedhros’ face. Quietly he slunk from the room, and yet was not cowed completely, as he looked down on Maglor disdainfully as he passed, his dark eyes flashing. 

As Curufin slipped around the doorframe, Maedhros sunk into the nearest chair with a sigh, his head pounding, all of the anger that had burned inside of him now imploded into a vague emptiness, a faint sense of nausea that curled unpleasantly in his stomach. Maglor appraised him concernedly from the opposite end of the table, but held his silence, content to wait until Maedhros mastered himself fully and wished to talk. Maglor knew his brother better than most, and cared not to press matters better left undisturbed.

Slowly, Maedhros reached up, raking his hand through a sweep of hair, tucking the errant strands behind his ears. His fingers caught suddenly on a knot, but he yanked them through with a pained grimace, coppery strands of hair wound like metal filigree into his fingers as he lowered them onto the table. And even at the distance Maglor could see that his hands were shaking, could see the flex of his tendons beneath the pale skin, the tremble of his fingertips, the strands of hair wrapped about them quivering in the golden light.  

“The son is but a shadow of the father,” Maedhros said abruptly, gazing down at the table, his eyes unfocused. “That is what someone said to me once. I thought that they meant Curufin, or even Caranthir but…”

He trailed off, his hands slowly curling into fists. And he looked at them in despair, in hatred even, willing them to stop shaking, willing the awful aching numbness spreading in his chest to just go away.

“I wanted to kill him, Maglor,” he said, his voice hollow, as if spoken from terribly far away, a lonely soul amid the ruins of a battlefield. “Just hearing Fingon’s name on his lips…It hurt. It hurt so much, and I wanted to slap him, shake him, make him stop saying these things, these _lies_ …”

He looked up suddenly, his eyes rimmed in redness, his irises cast like splinters of burning emerald as he stared at Maglor beseechingly.

“But what if they’re not…”

And Maglor shook his head in denial even as the words fell out of his brother’s mouth, and firmly he began:

“Maedhros, no…”

“What if they’re not, Maglor?” Maedhros cut in, scarcely registering that Maglor had spoken. “What if Curufin is right? About our uncle, our cousins. About Fingon…”     

Maedhros’ hand absently wandered to his cheek, his fingers probing the yellowish bruise that blossomed across his cheekbone. As he touched it his eyes seemed to shiver, all of the light in them dying. “Could he have lied to me all this time? All of this time we have spent together, all those nights…What if he hated me all along?” 

Maglor fought down a scream of frustration, instead affixing Maedhros with a piercing stare, his gentle eyes like shards of bitter steel as he commanded:

“Maedhros, stop this! Now. You are being ridiculous. You are tormenting yourself with spectres; half-formed wisps of lies and deceits that you coil around yourself, and twist to suit your own imagination. Fingon would never do that. Never. _Do you understand me, Maedhros?_ ”

And perhaps it was the urgency, the strength in his brother’s lyrical voice that pierced through his misery, but Maedhros sighed at last, a broken, wistful smile wavering over his lips as he acknowledged his brother’s words, and he weighed them, and instinctively he knew they were true. He looked plaintively up at Maglor, peeping from beneath his hair like a shy child, and forlornly he said:

“I just miss him so much. Just him being there, being near me. It’s…it’s just…hard, you know,” he finished lamely, his eyes skittering towards the windows, gazing out over the pale roofs of their house.

“Come,” Maglor said firmly, rising, and walking over to him. He extended his hand, and after a brief hesitation Maedhros took it, smiling falteringly as Maglor tugged him to his feet. “Let us go for a ride, together. A gallop through the fields ought to clear the mind of cobwebs. Elvëa has not been out of the stables in days, and neither has Morímírë, so I’d hold tight if I were you. Come, I’ll race you to Lórien, brother. Let us see who proves the swifter!”

“As you please,” Maedhros replied softly, his voice pallid against Maglor’s enthusiasm. “Some time out of the city may help, I suppose…”

At that Maglor scoffed, and decisively he decreed:

“This melancholy air does not suit you at all, Maedhros! Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and put this on.”

Maedhros looked up in confusion, only to flinch as a riding jacket was flung at him, a button nearly gouging out his eye. He blinked at the jacket in surprise, puzzling over where Maglor had gotten it from, but even as he did Maglor strode towards the door, yelling over his shoulder: “Hurry up! Put it on while I fetch my harp.”

If nothing else, his brother could play him as well as any instrument: the threat of Maglor’s endless singing hovering over him like a gathering thunderstorm. Tendrils of half-hearted mortification ran through him, and he groaned: 

“Oh no, no harps on this trip, I forbid it!”

But Maglor simply winked at him, slipping out of the door with a mischievous smile. For an instant Maedhros considered simply resigning himself to a day of being grudgingly serenaded, but something inside of him shuddered at the gruesome thought. And in that moment he decided, the last shreds of self-pity driven from him in the face of this new, far more pressing horror, and he sprinted towards the door, his hair streaming out behind him as he shouted pleadingly after his brother:  

“Maglor! Maglor, no! Please, I beg of you, spare me just this once…”

    


End file.
